


Troubadour:  Duet

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-07-03 14:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15820500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Love is a battlefield, but trust is a minefield--doubly so when your true form is that of a creature. When Damus of Tarn meets Deszaras-336, retreat into fantasy is no longer an option.  Part two of a duology.





	1. Nocturne

Chapter One: Nocturne 

Deathsaurus lay still in Tarn’s berth, breathing in the cocktail of fragrances that made up Tarn’s unique scent: high-quality wax, distilled energon, the oil that lubricated his tank tracks, and the explosive powder in the combustive shells fired by Tarn’s guns in his alt-mode. 

Tarn was deep in recharge, venting slowly and rhythmically, his powerful frame nestled into Deathsaurus’s side. Deathsaurus fanned his wing over Tarn, enjoying the warm weight of the tarp atop his wing almost as much as he enjoyed the heat of his lover underneath. Tarn was so powerful, a proven leader who could obviously fend for himself, but he clung to Deathsaurus tonight as though Deathsaurus were his anchor. 

Deathsaurus was not tired. He’d recharged only a couple of days ago, so he did not need to rest so deeply, but he was content to lie in this berth and doze, savouring his lover’s warmth. 

Or, he would be content, if only nightmares would stop chasing themselves through his mind. If only his plating would stop crawling. Deathsaurus could never be content for long. If it wasn’t some unanticipated crisis, then it was his own body and mind spawning trouble for him. 

He wanted to change shape. No…he _needed_ to change shape. He’d been in his robot form far too long and it was beginning to feel oppressive. Dishonest. Coercive. He had to get back in his true shape. He wanted to be _himself_. 

Deathsaurus gritted his teeth. The leader of the Decepticon Justice Division was a cultured mechanism. Deathsaurus didn’t need to ask to know that Tarn would not want an animal in his berth. 

Deathsaurus’s T-cog spasmed inside him. His frame’s _desire_ quickly became a _demand_. Deathsaurus ran a quick risk analysis and didn’t like the results. He could fight off his urges for a long time, but only if he was awake. If he dozed off and the nightmares returned, he’d revert to his creature form in his sleep. He was less afraid of pain than he was of failure. 

He withdrew his wing carefully and eased away from Tarn. Holding his breath, he listened for any sound of complaint. Tarn did not so much as move. Deathsaurus assumed his mate was so deep in recharge that he was unaware of what was going on around him. 

That was a humbling amount of trust to put in a partner. Particularly someone who had been an enemy not that long ago. 

But as Deathsaurus’s T-cog spasmed again, the beastformer knew he had little choice. He pulled back the chamois bedding and tucked it in tightly around Tarn to keep the warmth in. Then he slid out of the berth and changed shape. He was in beast mode before his feet hit the floor. 

Oh, and it was a relief to be back in this form. It felt normal, natural. Comforting. The pain in his T-cog immediately vanished. The creepy crawly sensation disappeared, as though washed away by the act of transformation. 

On all fours, the animal that was Deathsaurus raised his head and studied his sleeping mate. 

There was nothing Deathsaurus wanted more than to ease back into the berth and curl up next to Tarn. He even went so far as to brace his forelegs on Tarn’s slab before his conscience slapped him in the spark. 

_Tarn’s in recharge. He can’t consent to this._

_And there’s no point in waking him up to ask. You already know his answer’s going to be no._

_Change back or stay out._

It would be uncomfortable for Deathsaurus to change back so soon. That left him with no choice but _stay out_. 

He curled up into a miserable ball on Tarn’s decadent bedside rug. The rug was soft, and that was nice, but the air was cool out here, and the rug was too thin to conceal the fact that the floor was hard. All in all it was much nicer in Tarn’s berth, with the warm chamois bedding, and the soft vibrations of Tarn’s engine next to him. 

_Nice things aren’t for you. They never were._

For a moment Deathsaurus regretted what he’d done that evening. _This fantasy is going too far. For a moment you let yourself believe…_

_No._

_For a moment you let yourself_ forget _._

_Now you’ve remembered what you really are, and you feel sorry for yourself. As if it wasn’t your own fault for letting yourself forget in the first place. You’ve got no right to cry over a situation you put yourself in._

_You’ve known all along there’s no future in this relationship._

There had never been _any_ kind of future for Deathsaurus, and he was proud of the life he’d managed to steal for himself. Scimitar’s name came with a legally registered identity and a unit commander’s commission in the Decepticon military. He’d taken a Warworld. He’d taken a crew… 

Deathsaurus recoiled at the thought. No, he hadn’t stolen his crew. Some of them had come to him because they’d wanted to, and others had come because they’d been assigned to him, but all of them had _stayed_ with him by their own free will. He’d given every mech on this ship the opportunity to leave. The ones who wanted to leave were already gone. Everyone on the Warworld tonight was here because they chose to be. 

Tarn had made a choice to come here, yes, but Tarn had not come looking for a leader or a refuge. Tarn’s records on Deathsaurus were incomplete. Tarn knew enough to choose to form a military alliance with Deathsaurus. Tarn did not know enough to decide whether or not Deathsaurus was a good fit for a _conjunx endura_. If he ever discovered the full story, Tarn would understand that they were a poor match. 

Deathsaurus had gone into the affair knowing as much. Why did it hurt, to think of it now? He’d known all along that a temporary affair was the best outcome he could hope for. A bit of fun, until Tarn got bored of him and moved on. Deathsaurus had no right to even think about being anyone’s _conjunx_ , let alone Tarn’s. 

Deathsaurus felt unsettled and wasn’t sure why. He hated the idea of losing Tarn, but he’d also resigned himself to it. He was surprised by this feeling now because… 

_Because tonight you acted the beast and Tarn liked it._

But it was one thing to pretend to play a role and quite another for that role to be a reality. 

_What if you’d tried to take Tarn’s spike in this form?_

Deathsaurus winced. 

_There, you see? He doesn’t want you. He wants_ part _of you. The parts that play into his fantasies._

Deathsaurus pressed the halves of his beak together and lifted his head. Beast he might be, but he still had his pride. That was not something that anyone else could take away from him. That was _his_ , and it would be maintained or lost by his own actions alone. 

_Make the most of what you have while you have it, but don’t ever forget—he doesn’t love you. He won’t love you. He_ can’t _love you._

_Dream, but never forget you’re dreaming. Or that you have a crew you need to look after when you wake up._

_A crew who want to be with you, despite knowing what you are._

Deathsaurus sighed, feeling miserable. Again his conscience chided him. He had no reason to mope around. His crew were alive and safe, thanks to his alliance with Tarn. The more he got into Tarn’s good books, the more leverage he had to make sure their operation against Megatron came with maximum survivability for his crew. He was under no illusions that he would not lose some of his people—Megatron was dangerous, and in his experience nobody fought harder than mechanisms who had their backs to the wall—but he would not let anyone throw his crew’s lives away cheaply. They were not Tarn’s cannon fodder any more than they’d been Megatron’s. 

Perhaps that was where the danger lay. The more Deathsaurus indulged in this personal fantasy, the easier it would be to lose his perspective on reality. He hadn’t anticipated either mind-blowing interface or this sudden and pernicious affection for his ally and frag-buddy. 

_It’ll be fine as long as I remember the cold, hard facts._

Would it, though? Deathsaurus shivered, and not from the chill of the floor through the thin rug, or the whisper of cold air with no bedding to shield his frame. He trembled because for one terrible moment Deathsaurus wondered if he dared to trust himself. 

Deathsaurus rose to his feet, tail lashing. If he couldn’t trust himself then he was truly lost. 

And he hadn’t survived as long as he had by curling up into a little ball of misery and wallowing in self-pity. To admit distress was as good as sending out an invitation for attack. _I’m weak; come hurt me_. 

Oh, no. Not him. When enemies came they would find him as they always had: defiant, prepared, and a force to be reckoned with. 

He thought about Esmeral in the engine room, repairing the left auxiliary star drive. He trusted his Defense Commander. He did. But he could be doing something useful now instead of fretting about his personal problems. 

The Warworld’s hunt for Megatron had taken it to the brink of Mauler territory. Deathsaurus wasn’t foolish enough to cross that border. They would not be in any condition to fight Megatron for a very long time after a battle with the Maulers. 

Still, Deathsaurus did not trust that the Maulers would stay on their own side of the border. They might cross the line, looking to pick a fight. If they did, Deathsaurus would rather evade them than battle them. Evading would be hard if the Warworld blew out its star drives and had no auxiliaries to fall back on. 

Deathsaurus decided to go down to the engine room and check on the repairs. Better to spend his time doing something proactive than lying around feeling uncomfortable and counting down the hours until he could get back in the berth with Tarn again. If things were going poorly in the engine room, his crew could use his help. 

If they weren’t…then perhaps he could sneak back into the berth, in his robot mode, before Tarn woke up. 

Deathsaurus unwound his tail from his limbs and stretched his wings. He folded them neatly against his sides as he padded across Tarn’s extravagant quarters, heading for the door. He reared up on his hind legs and pressed the door panel with his forepaw. It opened at a touch. 

He walked out into the corridor, wondering what the DJD would say if they saw him leaving Tarn’s quarters in his creature mode. He decided he didn’t care. It was Tarn’s opinion that mattered, and Tarn would not have to deal with Deathsaurus-the-animal. 

With Deszaras-336. 


	2. Ballad

Chapter Two: Ballad 

Tarn had dreamed this dream often enough that he knew the script by heart. He and Lord Megatron stood in the wreckage of an old gladiatorial arena, facing one another, hand in hand. Not even historical landmarks were immune from the ravages of war; there had been no one to care for this site as it ought to be cared for. Tarn was looking forward to changing that during the coming peace. 

But first. 

This had been the place where Glitch and Amp had come, millennia ago, to see Megatron fight and talk. After the match he had addressed the crowd and spoken of his dream. 

That dream was now a reality. 

“My loyal servant,” Megatron breathed, “my Tarn. Today is the culmination of everything we have fought for.” 

“I would have waited an eternity for this,” Tarn whispered. Truthfully, he could hardly believe that the moment he’d worked for so long had finally come to pass. 

“Then if there is anyone who would object to our union, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.” 

Tarn felt a flash of unease sullying his happiness. That line was not in the script. This was the part where Megatron was supposed to pledge his love undying… 

Behind him, the arena doors burst open with a loud bang like a cannon. 

Tarn wheeled around. 

“Am I interrupting?” Deathsaurus stood in the open doorway, arms folded, wings flared, the left corner of his mouth lifting in a crooked smirk. 

Tarn’s spark went wild with panic. 

Maybe there was a terribly selfish part of him that liked the idea of Megatron and Deathsaurus fighting over him, but any enjoyment he might get from such a fantasy was utterly soured by the facts of such a fight in reality. Deathsaurus was one hell of a fighter, but nobody was a match for Megatron in the arena. 

“You dare to challenge Megatron?” 

Tarn felt his fuel tanks sink. He didn’t want to watch Megatron tear Deathsaurus apart. Tarn prayed that Deathsaurus would deny it. 

Of course Deathsaurus never did anything the way he should. He met Megatron’s optics with an unflinching gaze. “I do.” 

Was he insane, or… 

_No. No, he isn’t. You know he isn’t._

_That means he thinks he can win._

_How? What’s his angle?_

Deathsaurus’s gaze slid to Tarn’s face. Tarn felt as though Deathsaurus could see right through the mask. Right through to his spark. 

“How about it?” Deathsaurus inquired. “Did I win?” 

Tarn’s spark spun at a dizzying rate. 

“You think you can win without a fight?” Megatron scoffed. 

Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge. “I think no amount of us pounding on one another can change Damus’s heart.” 

Tarn choked. 

No, Deathsaurus wasn’t stupid enough to take Megatron on in hand-to-hand combat. He’d made Tarn’s heart his battleground instead. 

Which meant it wasn’t up to Deathsaurus—or Megatron—who won, and who lost. It was up to _Tarn_. 

Tarn looked from Megatron to Deathsaurus, unable to choose. 

He felt sick. 

Then he woke up. 

# 

Tarn sat upright in his berth, his intakes straining, gasping for breath. His fuel tank felt like a cement mixer, tumbling over and over. He felt hot, dizzy, and ill. 

_Who are you in love with?_

_Megatron?_

_Or Deathsaurus?_

Tarn breathed deeply and tried to calm his pounding fuel pump. 

_It’s just a dream. You don’t really have to pick._

_…Not right now, anyway._

But someday soon he _would_ have to pick. What was going to happen when he finally located Megatron? 

_Do you really want to kill Megatron?_

_Or just punish him until he recants his mistake? Until he takes you back?_

_What are you going to do if Megatron and Deathsaurus fight each other?_

_What if Deathsaurus dies?_

_What if_ Megatron _dies? Can you kill him, when it comes right down to it? Can you let Deathsaurus kill him?_

_What if Megatron begs your forgiveness?_

_What do you even_ want _?_

Tarn didn’t know. 

_Megatron left me. Abandoned me. It would serve him right if he lost me to Deathsaurus, who…_

Tarn looked to the other side of the bed and felt a chill grip his spark. 

_…who isn’t here._

Tarn felt shaky, like the drop after a nuke binge. He checked his chronometer. Still several hours left in his rest cycle. Deathsaurus, cuddly as he’d been, had not stayed the night. 

Maybe some emergency had pulled him away. Tarn didn’t quite believe it, though he wanted to. If Deathsaurus’s comm link had chimed, would Tarn have heard it? 

Tarn liked to give the impression that he was all-seeing and all-knowing—it kept people in line—but in truth he was rather a heavy sleeper. Well, when he wasn’t having nightmares. To keep his demons at bay, he preferred to fall into the berth with either a little chemical assistance or else utterly exhausted from a transformation binge. 

His valve throbbed, reminding him that he’d been getting his utter exhaustion by other means of late. 

He’d been sleeping deeply until the dream had roused him. He had not heard Deathsaurus go. 

Tarn shuddered, clasping his arms around his torso. What had happened to his affectionate field marshal? Why had Deathsaurus left? 

Tarn brightened his optics and looked around the room, hoping against hope that Deathsaurus had gotten up for a snack or a drink and he’d be back to snuggle momentarily. 

No. The room was quiet and Deathsaurus was gone. 

Immediately, Tarn felt a rush of anger at himself and his own stupidity. 

There were two possible explanations. His mind clung firmly to the first. He’d scolded Deathsaurus often enough about minding his manners. 

Despite his devil-may-care attitude, Deathsaurus had obviously cared enough to go to the trouble of doing research so he could learn the expected etiquette. That research would have told him that a Vosian lover would be long gone from his companion’s berth come morning. It was considered inappropriate— _clingy_ —to linger and interfere with your lover’s ability to get up and prepare for the busy day ahead. 

Deathsaurus had done Tarn the courtesy of respecting his time and all Tarn could do now was sulk about not having a warm field marshal to snuggle with. 

How immature could he get? Such neediness was beneath him. And if he felt just a little _hurt_ , well, he’d better get a handle on that emotion fast before he sullied a mutually satisfying affair with _clinginess_. 

Or, of course, it might be the second explanation. 

Deathsaurus might be very much like Megatron. He might have other tasks—other _people_ —occupying his time. 

Tarn laid back, pulled the tarps tight and tried to get back into recharge, but sleep eluded him. He wondered what to do the next time he saw Deathsaurus. 

Would last night’s game make Deathsaurus aggressive? Confrontational? Would Deathsaurus sneer at him, all deference lost for an Emperor who played at being a servant? 

_You let the mask slip, you fool,_ Tarn berated himself, _and now you’ll get precisely what you deserve._

_Ah, but it was so good…for once in your lifetime…to have a Lord who truly wanted you._

Tarn couldn’t manage proper repentance. 

But if he laid here in the dark remembering what he had done with Deathsaurus and craving a repeat of it, or hating himself for doing it in the first place, or worst of all, craving a repeat of it _while_ hating himself for doing it in the first place, he’d surely go mad. 

Reluctantly, Tarn got out of the berth and stumbled towards his desk. Surely there was some routine paperwork he could do to take his mind off Deathsaurus and his unexplained absence. Kaon had been nagging him to change his passwords. He could start there. 

He needed to keep himself busy. Too busy to fixate on Megatron and Deathsaurus, his Lords and Masters, his one-time leader and his uncertain field marshal, his Emperor and his Czar in Onyx, the kings of his divided heart. 


	3. Chorale

Chapter Three: Chorale 

Still in creature mode, Deathsaurus padded through the halls of the Warworld. His crew nodded at him as he went by. They were accustomed to seeing him in this form. 

They were also accustomed to seeing their leader prowling the corridors when he ought to be in recharge, spurred to action by the demons in his head. None of them moved to stop him. There was a longstanding agreement between Deathsaurus and his crew: if he wanted their help, they were available. They would not interfere if he did not ask them to. 

Ordinarly he was grateful for this arrangement. It kept his crew safe on the nights when his self-control frayed to a single thread. Tonight, though… Tonight he wondered if it might not be wise to get an outsider’s perspective on his personal problem with Tarn. If his ill-fated affair with Leozack had proved anything, it was that his judgment was not to be trusted when _romance_ entered the picture. 

But if he wanted an outsider’s perspective, he had to ask for it, and he had no idea where to begin. How could he tell his crew that he was in love with _Tarn_ , of all mechanisms? The same mech who’d been hunting them down since the day they left Cybertron. 

_That was business. Not personal. You know you’ve killed for similar reasons._

_But they hate him. The way I used to hate him._

_Am I a traitor to my people?_

Deathsaurus didn’t think he was. The DJD had boarded the Warworld and all his crew was still alive. He hadn’t dreamed of a best-case scenario so successful. 

But he remembered Leozack’s power play in the hangar after he and Tarn had sealed their alliance. Deathsaurus didn’t need Leozack portraying him as a sellout. Or a weak leader. He’d been so busy placating Tarn of late—and indulging himself—that he felt out of touch with his own crew. 

Deathsaurus shivered. If Leozack insisted on forcing a confrontation… 

_Kill my brother? I’d rather Tarn have destroyed me._

He was going to have to tell Tarn in no uncertain terms to keep his hands off of Leozack. No matter what Leo did. Deathsaurus was certain that when Tarn looked at Leozack, all he saw was a Starscream to Deathsaurus’s Megatron. 

Deathsaurus had never been particularly interested in other mechanisms’ drama. Nor did he enjoy having drama of his own. But he and Leozack had been young and stupid and, like all MTOs, cursed with knowledge of their immanent deaths. They had mixed up loyalty, love, lust and duty into a volatile cocktail and let their own curiosity set it on fire. The resulting conflagration had taken a million years to bring under control. Deathsaurus was certain they were untangling it still. 

Looking back from the wisdom of years, Deathsaurus regretted ever becoming romantically or sexually involved with Leozack. _You should have thought of him as your brother all along. Like Lyzack was always your sister. You should never have tried to bring conjunx endurae into the bond between you._

_But neither of us knew any better._

They’d been too young and too inexperienced to understand what they’d done. Neither of them had known that Leozack would never be happy with only one partner in his berth; or that Deathsaurus would not be able to bear an open relationship. They had tried so hard to make it work. All they had done was make one another miserable. They were fundamentally incompatible as _conjunx endurae_ ; no amount of love for one another could change it. 

And somewhere their love had been tainted with the burdens of command. Leozack wanted to lead so desperately. To be praised, to be admired. Leozack didn’t understand the heavy responsibility of five hundred lives riding on his every decision. Deathsaurus reined him in and Leozack chafed under Deathsaurus’s protection. Deathsaurus carried the burden of responsibility and Leozack had come to resent him for it. 

_It’s not just my jealousy._

_It isn’t._

Deathsaurus lashed his tail. Jealousy and envy were uncommon for him. He took what he wanted for himself; and he did not mourn what he could not earn. Usually. No amount of effort on his part could have changed Leozack’s fundamental nature. Or his own. 

And no amount of effort on his part would make him Damus’s Patron in fact rather than fantasy. 

Fantasy had taken a tight hold on his spark these days. 

Heresay on Cybertron said that MTOs envied the Forged, and Deathsaurus had found this to be true in his experience, though usually not for the reasons that the Forged and first wave of constructed cold mechs believed. Among the Warworld crew it had less to do with hoping to avoid discrimination and more to do with curiosity about a world without war. Many of the MTOs felt sorrow that they had never been part of a civilian society; that they had never seen Cybertron in her pre-war glory; that they had never known peace. 

Deathsaurus did not share their sentiments. He had seen more Forged break down and fall apart than he could remember, and no wonder; they’d seen the destruction of the world as they’d known it. What was the use in experiencing the glory days only to have them taken away? 

Deathsaurus had been born to war. Having never known an existence without conflict, he’d embraced his reality and thrived against all odds. He was the Emperor of Destruction; the lord of ruins. He had no reason to mourn lost possibilities. 

So why was he wishing—for the first time he could recall—that he could have been born in time to see Cybertron as it was before the war? 

_In time to see the Vosian opera._

Maybe even in time to see Tarn—Damus—on the stage… 

Deathsaurus stopped, stock-still, and whipped his head to the left. The metal in this part of the corridor was new, freshly replaced. It was still shiny. Shiny enough to provide a reflection. 

Deathsaurus saw a mechanical monster staring back at him from the steel. 

_Do you think the Vosian opera would have let you in?_

Tarn’s scenario was a dream where the rules could be anything the dreamer wanted them to be, where reality did not have to intrude. Deathsaurus couldn’t stop his instinct to face reality head-on. 

If he’d been born at the same time as Tarn—if he’d been Forged—Senator Shockwave would not have invited a beastformer to the opera. He would never have had the opportunity to see Damus perform. He would be too busy trying to survive in a society that hated his kind—in short, no better off than he was now. No better off than he had been as an MTO. 

And he wouldn’t have had the tumult of war to cover him when he slipped his shackles and murdered Scimitar and stole his name and his rank. Cybertron at war had higher priorities than an empty cell and an animal on the rampage in no man’s land. Cybertron at peace would have had nothing better to do than chase him down and put him back in a cage. 

Cybertron at peace would have feared a monster on the loose. Cybertron at war had so many monsters already that nobody noticed one more. 

_Don’t forget who you are. Don’t ever forget what you are._

Deathsaurus glowered, and his reflection glared back, disapproving of his sudden silly wishes. They were out of character. Deathsaurus had always considered himself a realist. 

_You’re a cynic and a warrior and a savage beast—and that’s why your crew are alive. Because you didn’t trust Megatron not to spend your lives cheaply._

_Don’t get soft now._

He lifted his head high and proceeded to the left auxiliary engine room. 

From outside the door he could hear the rhythmic hum of the engine. Esmeral must have gotten it fixed, then. Deathsaurus opened the door and stepped inside. 

The big power plant ran smoothly, and in the corner, someone stood watching the readings on the control console. Not Esmeral. A smaller figure, lean and sharp, coloured in brilliant teal and smoky silver. 

Leozack. 

“I think those last adjustments did it, Esmeral,” he said, his attention still on the console. “There are no more fluctuations in the…” 

Leozack turned, and realized that the creature behind him was more blue than red. “Deathsaurus. What in the Pit are you doing here?” 

“Inspecting the engine. What does it look like?” Deathsaurus felt testy. 

_Don’t take it out on Leozack. It’s not his fault you’re a beast._

But it was hard not to retaliate when Leozack gave him attitude. “What, Tarn’s that much of a lightweight? You fragged him to sleep already?” 

Deathsaurus felt his hackles rising. “I don’t see how it’s any business of yours what I do with Tarn behind closed doors.” 

Leozack sneered and leaned over until his nose was just a finger’s breadth away from the horn on the tip of Deathsaurus’s beak. “It’s a disease, isn’t it? I’d never thought _you_ of all people would catch the contagious _pride_ that infected so many members of the Decepticon upper ranks.” 

Deathsaurus ground his teeth together. He’d been reminded many times tonight that he was undeserving of laying a hand on Damus of Old Vos, and now Leozack turned around and accused him of arrogance? “I don’t see how I would be too proud to do _anything_ in the name of keeping this crew alive.” 

“Exactly.” 

Deathsaurus blinked. 

Leozack folded his arms smugly. “You’d stoop to any low…except one. You’d never even think of _asking for help_.” 

Deathsaurus’s jaw unhinged. He let it. Let Leozack see his surprise. 

“Deathsaurus,” Leozack said softly, leaning back against the console. “Don’t you think it makes me sick to see you prostituting yourself to that…that monster?” 

“I…” At that, Deathsaurus was speechless. 

“And your _battle plan_. Fighting the DJD while the rest of us made our escape. Did you really believe it wouldn’t kill me to leave you behind?” 

Deathsaurus wished Leozack had expressed his concern as some sort of affection instead of as a play for command. He growled. “You say you want to be a leader. Leaders do what’s best for their crews.” 

“Which is why I’d have left you behind, even if I’d have hated myself for it. This situation is different.” Leozack put his hands on his hips. “You act as though you’re the only one among us capable of sacrifice.” 

“Leozack, say it plainly. Give it to me straight. I’ve had enough of pretty words and guessing for tonight.” 

“We’re ready to fight Tarn,” Leozack said bluntly, straightening up and clenching his fists. “Me and the rest of the Warworld. You shouldn’t have to satisfy his appetites for our sakes. We’ll take on the entire Decepticon Justice Division if he won’t leave you alone.” 


	4. Requiem

Chapter Four: Requiem 

Tarn couldn’t concentrate. Maybe that was why the combat simulator kept returning failure after failure. 

Sitting in front of his workstation, he opened the “Variables” tab and checked his data. Yes, the statistics accurately described the Decepticon Justice Division at full combat readiness—and with a generous dose of Nuke in their systems. 

He’d had to guess about the Warworld’s troops. He hoped they were tougher than they looked, because most of them kept getting killed off before the simulation ran its course. 

Tarn had yet to find a scenario where the DJD/Warworld combined forces boarded the _Lost Light_ and successfully took down Megatron. He’d managed a few scenarios where some of their number survived the confrontation, but survival wasn’t good enough. Tarn hadn’t gone to all this effort just to let Megatron escape. 

There _had_ to be a way. Tarn and his crew…they’d slaughtered the _Lost Light_ ’screw before, hadn’t they? Or had it been a tainted batch of Nuke that had made them all hallucinate a battle that never happened in some sort of group delusion? Because Drift and Brainstorm and their shipmates seemed to be very much alive, and flying around space in the company of Megatron the Betrayer. 

Surely five hundred soldiers would be enough to take out Megatron? 

Tarn would have to ask Deathsaurus for more details about his people’s capabilities. He’d avoided doing so up until now because…well, because Deathsaurus was paranoid, perhaps not without reason. Such data could just as easily be used against him. Tarn was beginning to suspect that in order to have any chance at all against Megatron, he and Deathsaurus would have to trust one another. 

Yet he also felt he’d trusted Deathsaurus a little too much. 

_What_ had he been thinking? He’d let his fantasies sweep him away. He’d given free reign to his most secret desires. 

Deathsaurus would remember how he’d made Tarn beg. Deathsaurus would know he’d mastered the once-fearsome leader of the DJD and reduced him to a pleading wreck. How would Tarn ever face Deathsaurus in the morning? 

_You tell him it was a game. A role. An exercise in make believe._

_And you pray to gods you don’t believe in, that he doesn’t call your bluff._

Tarn covered the optic holes in his mask with his palms and let out a ragged breath. 

By the Empire, but he should have continued with his usual arrangements. Chosen a lover from among Deathsaurus’s crew if he’d wanted someone to play with. They were a ragged lot, to be sure, but Tarn had seen a few pretty jets and streamlined speedsters in amongst the monoformers and beastformers and battered militia types. 

Tarn had never pursued anyone on the List before, but most of the Warworld’s crew had only been on the List because of their allegiance to Deathsaurus. Guilt by association. They might not be educated, or cultured, or any good at dancing, but beggars shouldn’t be choosers—if only Tarn had any interest in being satisfied with _good enough_. 

Tarn liked the chase—selecting a target, pursuing him, seducing him. The Warworld crew would probably balk at Tarn’s interest, but that was no deterrent: Tarn liked it when they protested at first. He liked it even more when their resistance crumbled in the face of his charms. In the end, they submitted and they liked it and they thanked him for the privilege. 

In the end, the power was in Tarn’s hands. 

And if he’d wanted to play games—if he’d wanted, for just one night, a Lord to serve—then why in the Pit hadn’t he played them with someone who’d know his place the morning after? Someone who would believe Tarn when he said it was just make believe. Or someone who’d be too intimidated to speak or act even if he didn’t believe. Someone, _anyone_ , other than the bold, unpredictable renegade who’d ended up in Tarn’s berth. 

The mech who’d actually _earned_ his place on the List for engineering the Decepticons’ largest-ever mass defection. 

_I didn’t even invite him into my berth, that first night. He invited himself._

_A misunderstanding, perhaps, but he still invited himself._

_Then he started chasing me in earnest._

Tarn paused. 

_Nobody’s ever chased me before._

_Not even Megatron._

Tarn winced. He wasn’t going to think about Megatron. 

Of course, now he couldn’t think of anything else. His dream roared back into his memory banks. Megatron and Deathsaurus, facing off against each other. 

And how alike they were. 

A chill ran down Tarn’s spinal strut. 

_Bold. Unpredictable. Cunning. Powerful._

_Revolutionary._

Primus help him, but he had a type, and it wasn’t his pretty little pets at all. 

Revelation swept through Tarn’s spark with the force of a maelstrom. This was why he’d capitulated so easy to an affair with a mech that made him feel as though he held a monster by the tail. One slip and he’d be devoured—destroyed utterly. Yet he couldn’t resist grabbing hold. 

_The only difference between Deathsaurus and Megatron is that Megatron never pursued me…that way._

A terrible thought bloomed to sudden life in Tarn’s brain. 

_Are you in love with Deathsaurus?_

_Or are you in love with the pieces of Megatron you see in him?_

_With Megatron’s shadow?_

Tarn felt his spark turn cold, because he didn’t know the answer. 

He _had_ to stop thinking about Megatron. Megatron was the enemy now. Megatron had _abandoned_ him. Abandoned the _Decepticon Cause_. It was right for him to be angry with Megatron. He _should_ hate Megatron for the crime he’d committed. 

And no, it wasn’t the same as when Deathsaurus did it. Deathsaurus departed _and took his people with him_. Megatron had left his Decepticons twisting in the wind, rudderless, directionless, lost. 

_Why wasn’t I enough_ ? 

Tarn found himself wondering, yet again, what he could have done differently. He’d failed Megatron. What had he done wrong? Or was it something he’d failed to do? Why hadn’t he even seen this defection coming? 

The one answer he feared to even contemplate was _nothing_. If he’d done nothing wrong, then he’d been helpless, and all his strength and skill and effort had been meaningless in the face of a fate he’d been unable to change. He knew that sickening feeling. He’d felt it when he’d looked in the mirror and a single unblinking optic stared back. 

He’d given the wreckage of his life to Megatron, and Megatron had rebuilt him beyond his wildest dreams, into someone powerful and worthy of respect, with his name on everyone’s lips… 

…but not into someone worthy of Megatron’s affection. 

Tarn curled his hands into fists, feeling his fingers bite into his palm. He squeezed tighter, embracing the pain, surrendering to it. 

_Stop. Thinking. About. Megatron._

Tarn shoved the chair away from the desk and stood up. 

_I have to figure out who I_ am _, without Megatron._

Because Megatron had created so much of the persona he now wore. Megatron had arranged for him to be rebuilt. Megatron had given him a powerful frame and the handsome face he’d always wanted. Megatron had scolded him when he’d been foolish enough to let Grimlock scar his new face, and in penance he’d never had the scar repaired. Megatron had created the DJD and given them their mission. 

And when he’d taken to wearing the mask—hiding his face so nobody could tell when he closed his eyes—Megatron had told him he approved. He’d never told Megatron why he wore the mask. Megatron had described the effect as _Punishment delivered not by a person, but by the Decepticon Cause itself._ Tarn had said nothing and let Megatron think that he’d intended that effect all along. 

Tarn turned around, facing the full-length mirror on the wall. Slowly, he raised his hands to his face and pulled the mask away. 

_Who am I, without Megatron?_

A failure peered back at him, with the shame-scar on his face visible for all to see. 

_Nothing but Damus of Tarn._


	5. Sforzando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last night before Last Light. :(

Chapter Five: Sforzando 

Deathsaurus opened his beak to speak and Leozack cut him off. “No. You should _not_ have to fuck Tarn in order to save our lives. And you should _not_ have to carry all the burdens of command alone. You’ve looked after us all this time; now it’s our turn.” Leozack narrowed his optics. “Tell Tarn to stop treating you like his concubine or it’s all-out war.” 

Deathsaurus couldn’t believe his audios. His crew thought he was…was trading sex as a condition of maintaining the alliance? That Tarn had threatened to kill his crew if he didn’t warm Tarn’s bed? Was _that_ why Guyhawk had been acting strangely right before he’d left to see Tarn last night? 

And Deathsaurus had utterly misread Leozack’s hostility. Deathsaurus had thought Leozack’s reaction to the alliance with the DJD was a play for power. An attempt to raise his standing with the crew by cutting Deathsaurus down. Leozack was telling him he’d gotten it badly wrong. “You…you’re _worried_ about me?” 

Leozack looked appalled. “Why _wouldn’t_ I worry about my leader? My _brother_?” 

“I thought you were angry with me,” Deathsaurus said softly. 

Leozack folded his hands behind his back and hung his head. “Yes. Sometimes I am. I admit that when I saw you and Tarn come out of his quarters for the first time, I reacted…poorly. I confess I said some vicious things to try to provoke you to fight. I couldn’t bear the idea of Tarn crushing you into submission. Not you. Of all people, not you.” He drew in a deep breath. “But if you really think my anger could wash away two million years of _family_ , then you never really knew me at all.” 

Deathsaurus felt relief surge through his systems. “Did I really think… _Feared_ would be more accurate. I was _afraid_ you were so angry with me that you had forgotten the bonds between us.” 

Leozack’s optics turned cold. “Two million years ago you saved my life. Mine and Lyzack’s. One million years ago you stole a Warworld and saved _all_ of us from meaningless deaths. Now Tarn is going to regret making you afraid.” 

“Leozack, don’t.” 

“No. You don’t get to be the only one making sacrifices. Not anymore.” His hands came to his sides, curled into fists. “It’s our turn to stand up for you.” 

“But I want to,” Deathsaurus stammered. “I’m…he’s not coercing me. It’s _me_. I’m the one chasing _him_.” 

Now it was Leozack’s turn to stare, mouth hanging open. Deathsaurus felt uneasy. The last thing he needed was Leozack getting jealous and trying to start trouble. “And I don’t need _you_ interfering with...” Deathsaurus stuttered, hating to admit it. “With the first real relationship I’ve had since you and I called it quits.” 

Leozack’s optics widened. “Why would I…” 

Deathsaurus flared his wings. “Are you trying to make me jealous over you _not_ being jealous?” 

“You’re not messing with me, are you?” Leozack clutched his chest. “Dear Holy Primus. A million years and I actually see you being serious about someone, and who do you pick? The leader of the bloody DJD.” Leozack’s lips split in a smirk. “You do not do _anything_ by halves, do you?” 

Deathsaurus felt impatient. “I don’t understand.” 

“I’m happy for you, you bloody fool.” 

“You’re _not_ jealous?” 

Leozack sighed. “Let’s not kid ourselves. I think we’ll always be a little envious of one another’s partners. But you and I both know that we’re too different to work as _conjunx endurae_. We need different things from that kind of relationship. We can’t give each other what we need.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Who signed on to this plan of yours?” 

“Everyone. Esmeral and I have been working on it since….well, since the first night Tarn was here.” Leozack’s optics narrowed. “Tarn still doesn’t know about Esmeral, does he? She told me she was under orders to stay out of sight.” 

“That’s right.” Deathsaurus felt uneasy about that, but he pushed those fears aside. “I might have a crush but I’m not _stupid_. Tarn doesn’t know about Esmeral, or the Nebula Fortress, or any of our crisis codes. If things _do_ go badly wrong I need to know we can still take the DJD by surprise.” 

Leozack let out a deep breath. “I’m relieved.” 

Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge. “You are?” 

“A lot of mechs lose their heads when they’re hot for someone.” He shrugs. “Primus knows I do.” 

Deathsaurus smiled. 

“But not you,” Leozack replied. “You’re a cautious, suspicious, paranoid spawn of a glitch and it’s part of why you’re such a good leader. Every time anyone has tried to double cross us you’ve always seen it coming.” 

“I wouldn’t say I’ve always seen it coming,” Deathsaurus said. “I’d say I’ve always been ready in case they did.” He let out a long breath. “Do I think Tarn is going to turn on us? I _hope_ not. But…” His tail lashed. “I can’t gamble this crew on _hope_.” 

Leozack nodded. “All right. Then I _hope_ your thing with Tarn works out.” He put a hand on Deathsaurus’s shoulder. “And if it doesn’t, and you need an army, you know who to call.” 

Deathsaurus was touched. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” 

Unfortunately, the heart-warming moment didn’t last. Worry tied knots in Deathsaurus’s fuel tanks. “Please. Tell the crew to stand down. I don’t want anyone getting trigger-happy in an attempt to protect me from a threat that doesn’t even exist.” 

Leozack fidgeted. “They notice, you know. That you’re sneaking around with Tarn. If the relationship’s consensual, why is it supposed to be a secret?” 

Deathsaurus rolled his optics. “Old Vos etiquette that I don’t understand.” 

“It’s a problem,” Leozack said bluntly. “I’ll tell them, but I can’t promise they’ll believe me.” He hesitated. “I’m about to overstep my authority, but you need to come clean with the crew to allay their suspicions.” 

“Tarn wouldn’t like it.” Even as Deathsaurus spoke the words, he realized how bad they sounded. Leozack opened his mouth and Deathsaurus cut him off. “I know. If Tarn places his idea of good manners over the safety of the crew, then he and I would never work out anyway.” 

Leozack nodded. “Go back and talk to him. The engine’s working again, so you can stop worrying about the Maulers. Focus on yourself for a change.” 

“You know me entirely too well.” 

“It’s the problem with family,” Leozack retorted. “Go on, get out of here.” 

Instead of protesting the insubordination, Deathsaurus grinned and left. 

On his way back to Tarn’s quarters, though, Deathsaurus remembered what Guyhawk had said to him during his detailing session. _I hope it goes okay tonight_. That was not the same as _have fun on your date_. It wasn’t the same at all. 

Deathsaurus lashed his tail with agitation as he realized that Guyhawk might well have the same concerns as Leozack. Who else thought Deathsaurus didn’t really want to be with Tarn? Who else might take it in their heads to defend their commander from the “oppression” of the DJD? 

That kind of misunderstanding could get people killed. 

Deathsaurus felt his air intakes squeeze into tight, narrow tubes. His chest burned. His spark felt cold. He was already afraid that some minor disagreement between members of his crew and Tarn’s DJD might flare up into the kind of fight that sent bodies to the morgue. So far, everyone had been minding their manners. But now he knew that at least two of his upper command—and who knows how many of the rank and file—thought Deathsaurus had bowed to Tarn to save his crew’s lives. And his crew, as always, were ready to fight for him. 

It was sweet, in a way, but he couldn’t bear it if any of his people got hurt over a rumour that had no basis in fact. 

He _had_ to talk to Tarn and get this situation sorted out before someone threw a match into the powderkeg. He had to… 

Deathsaurus stopped short and snorted derisively. _Talk_ to Tarn? Deathsaurus couldn’t talk to Tarn the way he talked to his crew. Tarn wasn’t into difficult conversations. Tarn was all about _games_. 

Deathsaurus had enjoyed some of those games. He’d enjoyed tonight’s game very much. But there was no time for games when the lives of his people were at stake. 

Deathsaurus decided he could no longer afford to play _secret affair_ with the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. They had to be straightforward and quash those rumours about Deathsaurus’s alleged unwillingness…or they had to stop sneaking into one another’s berths. Some secrets just couldn’t be kept on a Warworld. Not for long, anyway. 

Deathsaurus lashed his tail nervously. How was he ever going to get Tarn to open up and have a frank conversation? 

Damus, the virtuoso….Tarn, the boogie mech of Decepticons’ nightmares…Deathsaurus felt that he didn’t know his new lover at all. He’d seen a number of roles, but had no idea who was underneath the mask. Both literally and figuratively. 

_But you’re also wearing a mask._

Deathsaurus looked at his reflection in the shiny corridor wall again, and the face of a beast stared back. 

If he wanted Tarn to bare his soul, he had to set the example. 

Deathsaurus felt a tremor of unease fluttering in his spark. He didn’t think Tarn would like an animal in his quarters. He feared that Tarn would really not like being given an ultimatum. And if Tarn decided it was easier to simply break off their affair and behave more professionally in the future… 

Deathsaurus didn’t want that to happen. Didn’t want to hear Tarn dismissing him. 

For a moment, he almost changed his mind. 

Then a surge of fury roared through his systems. 

Deathsaurus had never bowed to his fears before, and he was not about to start doing so now. __


	6. Fanfare

Chapter Six: Fanfare 

Tarn stared at his unmasked face, his spark quaking before a devastating epiphany. 

It was no wonder he had wanted to play patron and virtuoso with Deathsaurus. There were really only two roles he knew: “Tarn” and “Damus.” There was no “Tarn” without Megatron. That left him with “Damus.” 

Damus was a nobody, a nothing, but in the context of the game, Deathsaurus had praised his singer and Damus had been swept away by the promise of the fantasy. 

Now the game was over, and Damus with left with nothing to offer Deathsaurus but the shattered remnants of two failed careers, a ruined face, and Megatron’s leftovers in the berth. 

Tarn clutched tightly to the mask in his hand. The Decepticon Empire could not afford any more missteps. Megatron’s defection had grievously wounded the Decepticon Cause; only Tarn could prevent Megatron’s actions from dealing a mortal blow. 

Tarn placed the mask back over his face. 

He would punish Megatron and re-establish the Decepticon Empire. 

He _had_ to. 

It was the only way he could make up for a lifetime of failure. 

And his little dalliance with Deathsaurus was _nothing_ next to the Glorious Cause. If his affair got in the way of governance, then he would have to end it. 

If ending it hurt, well, there would be the proof of his virtue. Purification through pain. Absolution of all his sins. Sacrifice on the altar of the Decepticons. 

Tarn made his optics glow, and the face in the mirror glared back at him, radiating power and menace and majesty. Strong. Merciless. Unstoppable. 

A sound startled him from his thoughts—the soft beep of the keypad outside his door. Tarn turned away from the mirror and returned to his desk. He patched into the security cameras to see who would dare mess around with his door in the middle of rest cycle. 

Tarn blinked, not sure at first what he was looking at. It didn’t look like a person. It was big and long and low-slung, thick and powerful in the middle, tapered at both ends. One end lashed back and forth like a whip. The other end terminated in a hooked beak. Four legs supported it. A moment later, Tarn’s tired mind processed Deathsaurus in his creature mode, his wings furled against his sides. 

Deathsaurus pressed the buttons with the digits of his right… What was the word? Paw? It wasn’t exactly a hand, even if the digits were as flexible as fingers. 

Tarn watched, fascinated, as Deathsaurus finished punching in the security code that Tarn had only just changed, and pressed the activation switch. The door flashed red. Deathsaurus bared his teeth in obvious frustration. 

Deathsaurus pushed in the numbers again. Slowly. Carefully. Tarn realized the warlord wasn’t guessing. Deathsaurus knew the code—the old code. Tarn wasn’t sure how he could know, but Deathsaurus had the certainty of a mech who was absolutely confident he knew the number, and he’d simply pressed it in wrong. When the door once more failed to open, he would believe that Tarn had deliberately locked him out. 

Deathsaurus had no business knowing the code, and Tarn would dearly love to know how Deathsaurus had breached his security, but shutting his lover out in the hall was too severe a punishment. Not when Tarn had been sitting here feeling sorry for himself because Deathsaurus had left before morning. 

_Remember this affair is nothing next to the needs of the Empire._

Tarn didn’t want to remember that right now. He was hurt that Deathsaurus had left, yes, but his treacherous spark whirled fast with excitement now that Deathsaurus had returned. 

Tarn hastily rose to his feet, walked to the portal, and slid the door open. He took a deep breath, willing his voice to be steady. “Can I help you?” he inquired. 

Yes, that was good. He sounded perfectly in control. Deathsaurus could not sense the maelstrom under his mask, in his spark. 

Deathsaurus glared up at him. “You changed the passcode,” he said accusingly. 

“Not to keep you out, I assure you. I couldn’t sleep, so I was handling some minor administrative matters, including the rotation of my passcodes.” 

“So it’s coincidence I can’t get back in.” Deathsaurus sounded skeptical. 

“Given that I wasn’t aware you had my _old_ passcode – yes.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head curiously. “But you punched it in right in front of me. Didn’t even try to hide it.” 

Tarn spluttered, not knowing where to begin formulating a response. It was a twelve-digit sequence! Normal mechs couldn’t memorize details so easily; but something nagged at Tarn’s memories. He’d known one person who could—Skids of Nova Cronum. The superlearner. 

Tarn took another look at Deathsaurus’s bestial form. Educated and smart weren’t quite the same thing, and Tarn would do well to keep that in mind. Deathsaurus’s lack of formal education in no way made him stupid. Having the keen senses of a predator didn’t do much good unless one could analyze the information one took in, and Deathsaurus clearly didn’t miss much. One mistake, one slip, one moment of weakness, and Deathsaurus would notice. Tarn was playing with fire every time he sought out his field marshal’s company. 

And Tarn’s fuel pump beat a little faster at the thought. He always did have a thing for clever mechs. 

“Sorry,” Deathsaurus said, startling Tarn out of his thoughts. The beastformer dropped his gaze to the floor. “I’m being anti-social again, aren’t I? Normal people don’t casually pick up others’ passcodes, do they?” He sighed. “If I had any manners, I would know my place and wait for you to offer that code to me.” 

_Know my place_ . That phrase struck a chord in Tarn. Deathsaurus would have been told to _mind his place_ because of his shape and his method of construction. He was a warlord today because he hadn’t listened to conventional wisdom. 

“Why don’t you come in and I’ll give you the new one,” Tarn said. 

Deathsaurus perked up, as though he hadn’t quite believed that the changed password really was coincidental. 

Tarn moved away from the door and Deathsaurus padded in—on all fours, still in his animal form, his tail snaking behind him. Tarn wasn’t sure what to make of that. It seemed rude to remark on Deathsaurus’s current form. But it was definitely disconcerting. 

There were certain social expectations of where one could use a vehicle mode; for example, it was inappropriate for Tarn to be in his tank form while talking to a guest. Deathsaurus must have at least some vague idea of those conventions, because he’d never flaunted his animal form in front of Tarn before. Why was he doing it now? What did it mean? 

Tarn’s instincts sent a tremor down his spinal strut. Deathsaurus might be baiting him. Tarn decided not to react until he had a better idea of the reason for Deathsaurus’s current shape. Instead, Tarn said casually, “I didn’t hear you leave.” 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” Deathsaurus’s tail moved in a slow, sinuous motion. “I had hoped I’d be back before you noticed I was gone.” 

“Oh? Should I ask what the trouble was?” Tarn’s fuel tank churned. “Or is it a secret?” His last words sounded more accusatory than he intended. 

“I was following up on repairs to the auxiliary star drive.” Deathsaurus hesitated next to the couch, but did not get up on it. “We’re on the edge of Mauler territory and I needed to make sure the repairs had been completed.” 

“Repairs.” Tarn wanted to believe him. 

Deathsaurus hung his head, as though he’d been caught in a lie. “I don’t sleep well when I’m agitated. I’m agitated when I know that my failures could get my crew killed.” He looked up, fixing Tarn in his ruby gaze. “I was obsessing about the star drive. And what it means that I took the evening off to play with you instead of staying in the engine room and making sure the job got done correctly.” 

“Was it? Done correctly, I mean?” Tarn settled himself on the couch. 

Deathsaurus nodded. “I trained my crew well. They should be able to run this Warworld to the same standard if I were to be incapacitated or killed.” 

Tarn raised an optic ridge. “Most Decepticons prefer to be irreplaceable.” 

Deathsaurus snorted scornfully; his disgust was clear, even on his bestial face. “And then if anything happens to them, their whole team pays the price. No. Look at the mess the Empire’s in because Megatron assumed he would always be at its head.” Deathsaurus whipped his tail back and forth, and Tarn could sense anger in the gesture. “The true test of leadership is building a crew that can function after you’re gone.” 

“That’s an…interesting approach.” What would happen to the DJD if anything happened to him? Could Kaon step in and run the unit? 

_Kaon wouldn’t even be able to get into your classified filing cabinet. Because you modelled yourself on Megatron. You_ are _the DJD. Victory through punishment._

_As usual, Deathsaurus stands all the conventional wisdom on its head._

“And yet I obsess about relinquishing control.” Deathsaurus flexed his wings. “You might have noticed by now how much I hate not being in command.” 

Tarn began to get an idea what might have ruffled Deathsaurus’s feathers. “If you’re asking whether I intend to ask you to play the virtuoso next time…no. That wasn’t my intention.” 

Deathsaurus relaxed. Tarn decided to follow Deathsaurus’s example and permit himself a little bluntness and inelegance. “Forgive me for saying I think we’ve both found roles for that game which suit our respective tastes.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Those don’t sound like the words of a mech who regrets his choices.” 

“Do you regret yours?” 

Deathsaurus’s beak gaped, showing off razor fangs, and a chuckle slipped out. The laugh sounded so normal. The animalistic maw looked anything but normal. “You should know I believe in standing by my actions.” 

“Do you believe in standing by my couch, too?” 

“Heh. I wouldn’t think you’d appreciate animals on your furniture.” 

Tarn gestured to the couch next to him. “Would you like to change shape? Sit down and talk?” 

The idea of sitting down and actually _discussing_ , at length, what Tarn felt for Deathsaurus, and what Deathsaurus felt for him, was terrifying, to say the least. It made Tarn’s throat burn and his fuel tanks clench. _Why_ couldn’t Deathsaurus just do what an Emperor should and _tell_ Tarn that he was his consort now? 

_Because you’re supposed to be the Emperor. Not Deathsaurus._

On some level, Tarn must have believed the voice in his head, because he’d expected Deathsaurus to comply. To sit down obediently on the couch and wait for Tarn to ask him a question. 

Instead, Deathsaurus looked him square in the optics and spoke a single word. “No.” 

While Tarn floundered, shocked by Deathsaurus’s flat refusal, the rogue warlord flared his wing, hiding his face as he wheeled around to leave. His tail lashed the air like a whip, heedless of its close proximity to Tarn’s belongings. 

_He’s leaving. Again._

Tarn should be angry. He hadn’t dismissed him. Play one submission game and Deathsaurus was being disrespectful. Tarn ought to make Deathsaurus pay. 

Instead, he felt the cold hand of terror tighten around his spark. 

Deathsaurus was _leaving him._ All the titles in the world couldn’t make the rogue warlord stop. He’d walked out on Megatron, now he was walking out on Tarn… 

Tarn leapt to his feet and stretched out his hand in a pathetic gesture. Tarn didn’t even know what he was trying to do. If he wanted to grab Deathsaurus, he’d have to move his feet. Chase after him. Or… 

Tarn, leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, new Emperor of all Decepticons, should use his terrible Voice to bring Deathsaurus to his knees. To halt him and force him to listen to his Lord. 

But Tarn’s fearsome persona had deserted, leaving Damus of Tarn trembling as waves of terror washed over him, still armed with his lethal gift, and utterly lacking the will to use it. When he spoke, the single word he uttered was a raw and desperate cry. “ _Why_?” 

Deathsaurus’s wing snapped down against his side. The beast turned its head and regarded Tarn. 

Tarn leaped desperately at his chance. “Please, just tell me why you won’t talk to me. What did I do?” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head curiously, and then he said stiffly, “No, I don’t want to change shape.” His optics narrowed. “The very fact that you asked me to suggests we may have little to talk about.” He licked his beak. “Save for the fact that our continued affair is a threat to both your mission and my crew.” 


	7. Mezzo Forte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Yule everyone :)

Chapter Seven: Mezzo Forte 

Deathsaurus could hear Tarn’s fuel pump pounding hard in his chest. In infrared vision, Tarn’s throat and belly radiated heat. Deathsaurus didn’t care. The bitter taste flooding his beak overwhelmed all his other senses. 

He was hurt and he shouldn’t be. This was _foolish_. There were many good things to say about being political allies with a mechanism as powerful as Tarn, not to mention their incredibly pleasurable side arrangement. Strategic advantage and good interfacing certainly beat floating through space as an inanimate corpse. That had been the far more likely outcome of a mech on the List coming face to face with the DJD. 

Instead he was saddened and, yes, a little angry that Tarn didn’t want him for anything else than an ally and occasional good time. 

He looked at Tarn—not his mate at all—and saw Tarn’s outstretched hand reaching towards him. 

“Deathsaurus, I don’t know what to do. I need you to _tell me_. I invited you to make yourself comfortable—or at least I tried to—but I obviously did something wrong.” 

Deathsaurus clenched his teeth, considering. 

He wanted to give Tarn the benefit of the doubt. Despite all the instincts in his head screaming at him not to. To leave while he still could. 

_When he first got here, you didn’t sit him down to chat about his philosophy of leadership, did you? You wouldn’t have trusted a thing he said if you had. No, you told him that killing his team was your condition for an alliance and then you waited to see what his choices said about him._

Deathsaurus hesitated. That statement wasn’t quite accurate. He’d expected Tarn to kill his team and, in so doing, disadvantage himself when Deathsaurus fell on him to take his life. 

No one had been more surprised than Deathsaurus when Tarn had refused. And, in so doing, Tarn had proven himself to be someone Deathsaurus could work with. 

_He’s proven that he doesn’t want you in this shape, and you’re sulking because you didn’t get the answer you wanted…_

But was this situation the same? Really? 

Being _asked_ if he wantedto change shape was surely different from being _ordered_ to. 

“I don’t understand what I did,” Tarn whispered. 

Deathsaurus ground his back teeth together. He’d always come here before in the proper form to use the furniture. Maybe Tarn actually _didn’t_ know. 

Maybe he wasn’t being a selfish fool if he actually gave Tarn a _chance_ before telling him to stuff it and walking out. 

Perhaps it would be all right to at least let Tarn consciously do something to deserve being dumped. Hadn’t Tarn earned that much of a chance, at least? 

“I want to stay in this shape,” Deathsaurus gritted. “Take it or leave it.” 

Tarn drew a deep breath into his intakes. “Of course. You said so last night. You want to act the beast and see if I like you anyway.” 

Deathsaurus was shocked that Tarn remembered. 

Tarn’s optics travelled over Deathsaurus’s bestial form. “You put more faith in actions than in words.” 

Deathsaurus couldn’t help it. He bared his teeth and slavered at Tarn, unable to control the impulse to look his worst. 

“You know I’ve seen my DJD at work,” Tarn said dryly. “If you want to shock me, you’ll have to do better than that.” 

Deathsaurus blinked, taken aback. 

Tarn stepped forward. Deathsaurus realized with some surprise that Tarn’s arm was still extended. 

Deathsaurus held his breath as he watched Tarn’s hand approaching his forehead. It seemed too much to hope that Tarn would voluntarily touch him when he was in his creature mode. 

Tarn hesitated. 

It hurt. 

Deathsaurus clamped his jaws shut. He should have known better than to expect… 

It still hurt. 

Then Tarn asked, “Will you bite my hand off for daring to pet you like a…like a turbofox?” 

Deathsaurus laughed, short and sharp. “I’ll bite you for daring to treat me like Kaon’s Pet.” He took a step forward, feeling his fuel pump accelerating, even though he vowed not to expect too much from a Forged mechamism. “But not for touching me.” 

“Can I…” Tarn looked uncertain. 

Deathsaurus felt a sudden wild hope flaring in his spark. “Damus. _Touch me._ ” 

Tarn’s hand trembled. 

Deathsaurus drew in a deep breath. “ _Please._ ” 

Tarn’s hand gently lowered onto Deathsaurus’s crest. He stroked the long spine, then trailed his fingers down under Deathsaurus’s left optic and tried to cup his cheek. Deathsaurus’s beast head was a very different shape from his robot head. The movement was awkward, unpracticed. Deathsaurus didn’t care. 

His spark whirled giddily. His fuel pump pounded in his chest. The sensitivity settings on his sensor suite went haywire. His vision was too bright, then too dim. Tarn’s touch was like a whisper, then like fire. Tarn’s scent poured over him like a cascade. 

“Deathsaurus,” Tarn murmured. “Why have you never told me you’d like me to do this?” 

Deathsaurus felt his voxcoder crackle with static. He coughed. “I didn’t think you’d want to…” 

_I presumed._

_I did the same damned thing I take advantage of in adversaries. I came up with a pre-conceived idea and acted accordingly. Without ever checking to see if I was mistaken._

_And now I’m the fool._

_And Tarn is touching me in this shape…_ Deathsaurus felt his head swim with an intoxicating joy. 

Tarn inhaled a slow, deep breath. “I’ve never been with someone like you. I mean that on multiple levels. We can discuss the other levels later, but in the immediate moment, I must confess I don’t know what feels good for you in this form. The mech who played Onyx Prime opposite me in The Thirteen…he wasn’t really a beastformer. He was a jet in a costume.” Tarn stroked Deathsaurus’s crest again. “And I wasn’t…it’s different on stage, when a director is choreographing your movements, when you have to exaggerate your gestures…when you’re sharing moments of intimacy solely because it’s in the script.” 

Deathsaurus inhaled. He could smell Tarn’s anxiety, yes, but not fear, and not disgust. He could hear Tarn’s fuel pump beating high and fast. 

_Tarn’s hesitant because he’s inexperienced?_

Yesterday, that idea would have been laughable. Tonight, Deathsaurus had very recent memories of his virtuoso’s deep desire to please. 

Deathsaurus was not eager to make any more presumptions. Not now. Not when Tarn seemed so willing to talk. 

“Let’s talk, then,” Deathsaurus murmured. “As long as you don’t mind me on your couch like this.” 

Tarn glanced him over again. “Are you really going to fit?” 

“You’d be surprised where I can…” Deathsaurus caught himself. What had Leozack said about _pride_ , and resorting to any low before asking for help? “Not comfortably,” he admitted. 

“If you will tell me what’s comfortable for a…a person in your current shape, I can offer my closest equivalent.” 

Deathsaurus fluttered his wings. “Even I know it’s rude to invite myself into someone else’s berth.” 

“Which in no way stopped you on my first night aboard.” 

Deathsaurus stared in fascination as Tarn actually winked. 

_A…joke?_

Deathsaurus grinned. He realized a moment later that Tarn might not be able to read his expressions in this form. He might well look like a slobbering predator. He laughed to make his reaction clear. 

Tarn laughed too. “Come,” he said, and for once, Deathsaurus was happy to do as he was told. 


	8. Ode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to say how happy and pleased I am to see all the positive comments from all the readers who've become invested in this relationship. I haven't had a chance to answer you all due to the holiday season, so I thought the best way I could say "thank you" was take some time today to edit and post the next chapter, a little Christmas present to you all. 
> 
> When I started writing "On My Dark and Lonely Side" I felt as though I was setting off to write a long, self-indulgent series about a ship only I and a couple other people cared about, and I'm surprised and delighted how many other folks have joined in to support these stories and this couple. 
> 
> There are absolutely more stories ahead for next year. Thank you so much for joining me on this ship.
> 
> *

Chapter Eight: Ode 

Tarn sat on the edge of his berth and clasped his hands to stop them from shaking. Not that it did any good. Deathsaurus was terrifyingly perceptive, and Tarn had no doubt the beast could smell his anxiety. 

Tarn reminded himself that _beast_ was his lover. Deathsaurus might be wearing the shape of an animal, but it was the same mind inside. 

Still, he felt a moment of panic. Maybe he didn’t want this beast in his bed after all. Not in this shape. 

A second later, he hated himself for his hypocrisy. 

_You want Deathsaurus to accept you as Damus, but you don’t want him to change form? You can’t be gracious to him in return?_

_You only like half of him?_

_You’re that afraid of a beastformer? Why? Because of social taboos? Because of what people would say if they knew that you were in love…in bed with one?_

_You’re that poor of a Decepticon? The Decepticon Manifesto says we’re all equal._

_Even the MTOs._

_Even the beastformers._

_Or are you still the chorus singer with the crush on Onyx Prime—the character? Are you afraid he’ll want to frag in this form?_

_Are you afraid you’ll like it?_

_Damus of Tarn was a filthy little pervert. Four million years of self-improvement and you haven’t improved yourself at all._

Tarn felt a seething ball of loathing explode in the pit of his fuel tank. He really was disgusting, wasn’t he? 

He could not quite put his finger on why. Was he afraid of his lover’s alternate form, or was he afraid of a taboo attraction to it? If it was the first, then he was disgusting because he was a poor example of a Decepticon; and if it was the second, then he was disgusting for his hypocrisy. 

Perhaps he should take a page from Deathsaurus’s playbook. _Let_ Deathsaurus keep his other form, and let the cards fall where they may. At least he would know how he would react to the beast in his berth. Then he could deal with that reaction, instead of wasting both of their time with maybes and what-ifs and attempts to guess the future. 

Tarn watched Deathsaurus climb up into his berth, one limb at a time, until the creature stood on all fours atop his slab. Deathsaurus’s right foreleg pawed at the bedding once, twice, and then the four limbs folded and Deathsaurus lay on his chest on the berth. Tarn wondered how his lover’s movements could seem so natural and so alien at the same time. 

_Alien to me. But natural to him._

In fact, Deathsaurus seemed more at home in his creature shape than Tarn ever had in either shape of the frame he wore now. Tarn loved his big, powerful tank body: anything he lacked in grace, he more than made up for in raw power. He intimidated everyone around him by his mere presence—something little Damus could never have done in his cute little car form. Tarn remembered waking up with a new face and feeling as though he finally had a body that matched his Voice. A frame that would give him the ability to realize his full potential. 

But the tank body was at the very limits of what his spark could support, and sometimes when his t-cog ached or his feet went numb or his hands tingled, he was reminded that this wasn’t the body he’d been Forged with. Even if he did wear it well. 

Many constructed cold mechs struggled with dysphoria, and no wonder – the coding in their sparks often didn’t line up with the bodies they were given. Some adapted more easily than others. The lucky few had bodies that aligned closely with the coding in their sparks. 

Tarn found it hard to believe that Deathsaurus could’ve been given a frame that matched his spark’s coding so perfectly. Neither he or Deathsaurus even knew the name of the kind of animal that Deathsaurus turned into. For all Tarn knew, some scientist had just made the beast up from his imagination. How could it possibly mirror what was in Deathsaurus’s spark? 

And yet Tarn couldn’t imagine Deathsaurus in any other kind of body. 

No jet could be so sinuous. No car could be so magnificent in flight. Deathsaurus didn’t just wear his body—he _inhabited it_ , as though frame and spark resonated in perfect harmony. 

There would be no changing Deathsaurus. Offering to pay for Deathsaurus to have a frame upgrade would be a futile gesture. Not just because he knew Deathsaurus would say no. Because he understood and accepted, now, that Deathsaurus’s frame was the true expression of his inner nature. 

If Tarn had a problem with a lover who turned into a creature, he was just going to have to learn to cope with it. 

Tarn felt his mouth go dry and feared that coping would be entirely too easy. 

Deathsaurus’s long neck curved and his beak rubbed against Tarn’s shoulder. He trilled a noise that sounded like an invitation, but Tarn thought he saw the shadow of a question in Deathsaurus’s optics. 

_He thinks I don’t want to touch him_ , Tarn recalled. 

Another wave of nervousness swept through Tarn. A dim recollection tugged at Tarn’s mind. The sensation felt like stage fright. 

_I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong._

_And I haven’t even practiced._

But with Deathsaurus, hesitation was worse than any mistake Tarn could possibly make. Tarn reached out his hand just as Deathsaurus came to entirely the wrong conclusion and said wryly, “Second thoughts?” 

His voice was sardonic and casual, as though he didn’t care either way, but Tarn was certain the flickering in his optics was pain. 

_You have to tell him what you’re thinking._

Tarn stumbled on words that were inelegant, unrehearsed. “You know I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“That doesn’t mat…” Deathsaurus bit off. His gaze sharpened. “It matters to _you_ , doesn’t it?” 

“I’ve done enough wrong in the last few minutes, haven’t I? You misunderstand my intentions. A performer is supposed to convey emotion to the audience, but I’m doing a poor job of conveying mine to you.” 

“I have….what does my Chief Medical Officer call it? _Expectation bias_. I may be looking for what I expect to see.” Deathsaurus corrected himself. “For what I’m afraid to see.” 

“Which wouldn’t be a problem if I made myself clearer.” Tarn ran a single finger along Deathsaurus’s central crest. “As always, I need to be perfect.” 

“Who told you that?”   
“It was how I won my roles back in my theatre days.” 

“Nobody’s perfect.” Deathsaurus lashed his tail. “Your goal is impossible.” 

“Still worth striving for, surely?” Tarn tentatively touched the big spine on Deathsaurus’s cheek. 

“Then promise me you’ll keep an optic on the collateral damage.” 

Tarn hesitated. “Are you always this _serious_?” 

Deathsaurus cocked his head. “Your file says I don’t take anything seriously.” 

“My file was written at a time when I thought no sane mechanism could weigh the odds and still make the choices you make.” 

“Here, let me make another choice of questionable sanity.” Deathsaurus’s optics sparkled. “Let me make a suggestion to the notorious mechanism whose berth I’m in.” 

Tarn watched Deathsaurus warily. 

Deathsaurus’s crest feathers flared and his beak parted in an avian smile. “You like games, don’t you? How would you like to play one of mine?” 

Tarn shivered despite himself. 

Oh, he’d played plenty of _games_ with his former lovers, but always _his_ games, on _his_ terms, with everyone except Megatron. He would have gladly played Megatron’s games, but Megatron had not had time for such frivolities. 

_At least, not with me._

Megatron had certainly played games with the likes of Starscream and Deadlock, hadn’t he? 

Old envy reared its head, and an ugly little voice deep down in Tarn’s spark whispered that being the perfect Decepticon, the very reflection of Megatron, hadn’t earned him the one thing he truly wanted. That was apparently reserved for the traitors, the turncoats… 

_Starscream. Deadlock. Megatron deserves his place in their company. His place on my List._

And Deathsaurus didn’t deserve his place on that List at all. Deathsaurus had seen the rottenness in the heart of the Decepticon Empire long before Tarn had.   
Before _Damus_ had. 

Tarn was frightened, but he knew, for certain, that he wanted to play Deathsaurus’s game. 

“Yes,” Tarn whispered. 

“This is a game for someone who hasn’t had a lot of practice,” Deathsaurus purred. The tone of his voice…oh, he was no singer, but Tarn’s frame prickled with anticipation just the same. “How it works is, you touch me somewhere, and I give you a modifier…like _slower_ or _harder_ or _a bit to the left_.” 

Tarn got it, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a blessing or a curse that the mask hid the stupid smile that had to be on his lips. 

_A game where I can’t get it wrong._

“But there’s rules,” Deathsaurus added. 

“Rules?” 

“Rule number one is, if you don’t like the modifier, you have to say so.” 

“If I…don’t like?” Tarn was bewildered. 

“The game ends if you feel you have to do something you don’t like,” Deathsaurus said sternly. “You can say no any time, and then I have to suggest something different.” 

“All right,” Tarn said, because Deathsaurus was in charge, and Tarn just wanted to get to the game already. 

“Rule two is, if I tell you to stop, you stop. Right away.” 

“Of course.” That was obvious when it was Deathsaurus’s game. But Tarn had a sneaking suspicion that Deathsaurus applied that rule across the board, no matter who was in charge. 

“Then do you have any rules?” Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Or shall we get started?” 

Tarn drew in a deep, ragged breath. Truthfully, he didn’t trust himself. He’d been trying so hard not to stare at Deathsaurus’s alt, but now Deathsaurus had all but invited him to have a good look. 

Deathsaurus’s alt was big and powerful, but lithe in unexpected ways. The long neck. The whiplike tail. The feet – paws? – were downright uncanny; they looked like hands. Tarn remembered how Deathsaurus had entered the passcode with a talon instead of a finger. Tarn wondered what else Deathsaurus could do in that form. His robot mode seemed superfluous, save for matters of social niceties. Social niceties that had never meant much to Deathsaurus. 

A plumed crest framed Deathsaurus’s face. A hooked horn decorated the tip of his beak. Spines and feathers studded his neck. His paint was striking, bold and bright; poor camouflage. Deathsaurus did not blend in. Nature saved such colours for its most deadly creatures. 

Tarn didn’t know how he was supposed to feel when he looked at Deathsaurus. His upbringing had told him that an alt like Deathsaurus’s was shameful. That Deathsaurus was a little bit less of a person than mechs with machine alts. 

But Onyx had been part mech and part beast. And Onyx had been a Prime. 

But since when did Decepticons thirst after Primes? 

Tarn’s engine growled. He certainly shouldn’t find Deathsaurus’s alt attractive, for multiple reasons. Perhaps it was the siren call of forbidden fruit that made Deathsaurus appealing. 

Perhaps it was that for all Deathsaurus reminded him of Megatron in many ways, in this he was nothing at all like Megatron. This form would never remind Tarn of Megatron at inopportune times. 

Or perhaps it was the way that Deathsaurus wore his alt: with confidence and pride. It suited him. Deathsaurus was pure predator, a lethal combination of power and grace, wrapped up in a roguish package that laughed when others flinched. Truthfully, Tarn could not imagine Deathsaurus as a jet or a helicopter. He was far more suited to go through life as a terrible monster whose name even he didn’t know. 

But could Tarn ever make love to such a creature? 

Could he even touch Deathsaurus in this form, the way he had touched Deathsaurus’s other shape? 

“My rule,” Tarn said slowly, “is that you have to talk to me. Not just the modifiers. When I’m touching you…you have to talk to me.” 

Deathsaurus chuckled. “You’re the one with the pretty voice, and you want to listen to me?” 

“I need…” Tarn prayed he could say what was on his mind without being insulting. “As I get to know this shape of yours…is it wrong if I find comfort in the reminder that it’s you?” 

“You need reassurance that I’m not an animal.” 

“Well, that’s certainly a tactless way to put it.” 

“But not an inaccurate one.” Deathsaurus sounded more smug than hurt. “All right.” He leaned his head against Tarn’s shoulder. “I accept your terms.” 

“I thought you might tell me to go frag myself,” Tarn murmured, scratching Deathsaurus’s cheek, “for asking such a thing.” 

“Harder.” Deathsaurus dimmed his optics. “And where would be the fun in that?” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Particularly when I’d take much more pleasure in handling _that_ specific task _myself_.” 

Still, Tarn wasn’t convinced that Deathsaurus truly didn’t care. 

_Why else would a sane mechanism overlook an insult?_

_Because he wants this touch more than he wants to retaliate against that part of me that perceives him as anything less than a person._

Tarn felt an unpleasant sensation that he thought might be _guilt_. It had been a long, long time since he’d permitted himself to feel guilty about anything. 

“I want to get better,” Tarn said abruptly. “I want to be…be a better person.” 

“It doesn’t happen overnight.” Deathsaurus’s frame relaxed, pressing against Tarn’s side. 

No, Deathsaurus was nothing at all like Megatron. Megatron always wanted problems fixed immediately. 

_I’m not thinking about Megatron tonight._

“Your patience is remarkable,” Tarn mused instead. 

“Damus….” 

Tarn’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Do you know how long it took me to stop acting like an animal? No? Well.” Deathsaurus’s wing feathers rattled in a gesture that Tarn recognized as agitation. He didn’t give Tarn enough time to answer the question or even think about its meaning. “It took some doing. So, I’ll extend you the same courtesy.” Deathsaurus lay his head in Tarn’s lap and looked up at his lover. “I don’t need perfection. I just need to see you trying.” 

Tarn ran his whole hand along Deathsaurus’s central crest. 

“That’s wonderful,” Deathsaurus sighed. “Just like that.” 

_How long it took me to stop acting like an animal_ . Tarn wasn’t sure what Deathsaurus was talking about. 

Had there been anything like that in Deathsaurus’s file? 

They’d called him the Dragon of Destruction, and of course the Autobots knew him as a monster rampaging through their ranks, leaving a swathe of carnage in their wake, but his own troops had always spoken so highly of him…or so Tarn had thought. 

This was also something Tarn could think about later. Right now, he had a whole new side of his lover to explore. 


	9. Serenade

Chapter Nine: Serenade 

Tarn’s fingers trailed over the spines above Deathsaurus’s optics, and Deathsaurus’s spark ached. 

He didn’t know why. He’d wanted this so much. To be in berth with Tarn in his creature form, with Tarn touching him gently, reverently… Now his own brain was determined to ruin it. Why did he have to do this to himself? How long had he been dreaming of this moment and why was it so hard to savour it now that it was here? 

Deathsaurus snapped his beak together. The real question was when had he _stopped_ fantasizing about this moment. 

He’d stopped letting himself indulge in this fantasy right around the time he realized that his completely unexpected affair with Tarn was becoming a regular part of his life. He was no longer apprehensive when Tarn reached for him. He missed Tarn when they were apart. In other words, when his fantasy left the safe realm of _never going to happen_. 

An ongoing affair meant the question might be asked, sooner or later, and if Tarn said he didn’t want Des in his creature form, Deathsaurus hadn’t known how he’d deal with the rejection. 

Deathsaurus had almost walked into Tarn’s quarters in his creature form several times, but each time he’d hesitated. He’d been unprepared to blow up his blossoming relationship by forcing the issue. That wasn’t like him. He was usually spoiling for a fight. He liked to get challenges over with quickly so he could move on to the next. 

He’d justified his reluctance by telling himself that his affair wasn’t going to last anyway. Why not enjoy it while he could? 

But tonight, Leozack’s revelation that the crew feared his trysts with Tarn were not entirely consensual had given Deathsaurus the courage to act. There was no point in asking Tarn for a public relationship if they broke up over his creature form first. 

Tarn’s fingers on Deathsaurus’s spines didn’t feel like an impending breakup. 

Which meant that Deathsaurus had to bring up that _other_ difficult topic. Pain clenched his spark in an iron fist. What was he going to do if Tarn said he didn’t want their affair to be a matter of public knowledge? 

…well, he knew what he would do. He would summon every bit of his pride and walk away. For his crew. He could not afford to try to sneak around behind their backs any longer. He’d already proven himself unsuccessful at allaying their suspicions. If bloodshed arose between the DJD and his people because of his own selfishness, he’d never forgive himself. 

But it would be agonizingly painful, and the only comfort he had to cling to was that nothing _else_ had managed to kill him yet. He’d survive. He always did. 

Whether he’d enjoy his life after Tarn or not was another matter. But his personal happiness was acceptable collateral damage when it came to protecting his crew. 

His love; his pain. Nobody else paying the price for his choices. 

Tarn’s fingers danced down the back of his neck. 

Right. Deathsaurus was supposed to be talking to Tarn. That was his end of the game. 

“That’s good,” Deathsaurus said, surprised by the breathiness of his voice. He didn’t do this…this _mush_. He didn’t indulge himself in… 

Would it kill him to see this encounter through to its conclusion? He’d have all the time in the universe to levy his ultimatum when Tarn tired of the game. 

Tarn wrapped his hand around one of Deathsaurus’s long neck spines. Deathsaurus snapped to alertness. 

“You’re trembling,” Tarn said gently. 

“I...it’s been a while,” Deathsaurus said, his voice raw. 

“Oh. Your crew won’t touch you in this shape?” Tarn’s tone was mild, but Deathsaurus’s instincts prickled a warning. 

Could Tarn be… _jealous_? 

“Not like _this_ ,” Deathsaurus said, at a loss for how to explain. A post-combat frag was a quick and dirty encounter, a mutual relief of stress and celebration of continued survival. It wasn’t so…what was the word? “I don’t usually do _romance_ ,” Deathsaurus stammered. “Not any more.” 

“Any more.” The dark undercurrent shifted focus. Tarn sounded protective. It was alien for Deathsaurus to be on the receiving end of such treatment. Defending his people was _his_ job. 

Tarn stroked the leading edge of Deathsaurus’s wing and Deathsaurus shivered. “Lightly. Those are sensitive.” Tarn’s touch became a ghost, brushing ever so softly along the wing. Deathsaurus continued. “Romance makes a mess of things. Complicates relationships that should be simple.” 

“Is that why you think our affair is a threat to your crew?” 

Damn. Tarn was going to force the difficult conversation right now. 

A thought flickered through Deathsaurus’s mind. _You could ask him to talk about it later. Enjoy his touch a little longer._ Deathsaurus dismissed the idea immediately. He’d never been one to shy away from the hard choices and he wasn’t about to start now. 

“My crew think you’re forcing me to interface with you as a condition of the alliance.” 

“Pfft.” Tarn’s casual dismissal should have sparked Deathsaurus’s fury, but Tarn’s hand on the root of Deathsaurus’s wing was soothing and extremely distracting. “I’d think your crew would know you better than that. Imagine _anyone_ trying to make you do something you didn’t want to do.” 

Deathsaurus felt a little bit flattered at that, and also somewhat reassured. Hopefully Tarn had taken that lesson to heart. Still, Tarn’s flippant reply was worrisome. Deathsaurus had to convince him to take this issue seriously. 

“They think I’m letting you push me into it,” Deathsaurus clarified. 

“Why would you ever _let_ me, or anyone else, push you into…” Tarn’s voice cut off. “ _Oh_.” 

Tarn must know him well enough by now to make the connection. 

Tarn’s optics flickered behind his mask. “They think you’re allowing me to manipulate you, and that you’re doing it for their sake.” 

“Exactly.” Deathsaurus dimmed his optics and flared his wing over Tarn’s lap, inviting Tarn to rub underneath the root. 

_Just a little longer. Please._

“So you want to stop doing this,” Tarn mused, and his fingers made little circles right up under Deathsaurus’s wing root. A sudden blast of arousal revved Deathsaurus’s engine and sent hot fire shooting through his neural net. 

Deathsaurus jerked his head up and turned to Tarn. “Do you know what you’re…” 

Tarn’s face was inscrutable as always, but Deathsaurus recognized smugness in the mech’s demeanour. 

“You know _exactly_ what you’re doing,” Deathsaurus accused. 

“I theorized this touch would have the same effect that it does in your other form,” Tarn said mildly. “My hypothesis appears to be correct.” 

“You want to rev me up when I look like this?” 

Hesitation? Perhaps. Tarn’s optics flickered again. However, his voice was as smooth as always. “You’re not acting like a mechanism who wants to stop.” 

“What I _want_ is meaningless,” Deathsaurus snapped. “I _will_ protect my crew. At _any_ cost.” 

Tarn sighed. “I fear a seduction may backfire.” He withdrew his hands, leaving Deathsaurus’s systems crying out for more, even as Deathsaurus’s logic centers tried unsuccessfully to convince his spark that this was for the best. “If I challenge you, you’ll surely do whatever it takes to prove you’re as good as your word. If I seduce you, you’ll scorch the earth before you let it happen again.” 

Tarn wasn’t wrong. Deathsaurus gritted his teeth. “Why does this affair have to be secret?” 

Tarn simply stared at him. Deathsaurus inhaled deeply, but Tarn’s scent was unchanged. His audios picked up the sound of Tarn’s engine missing a stroke, but Deathsaurus could not decipher what that response meant. 

There was nothing for it but to do what he’d always done—bare his fangs and charge ahead. 

“I did my research,” Deathsaurus said, certain that Tarn could hear his anguish in his voice. “I know that Vosians find it unseemly to make their affairs public knowledge. And I _tried_ , Tarn, I really did, but we’re five hundred six mechanisms crowded onto one Warworld, practically living in each other’s subspace, and my entire crew is nosy and defensive and self-sacrificing because I’ve taught them all to follow my example.” 

Deathsaurus looked up at his lover, wishing he could plead with Tarn to please understand, and knowing damned well that most Cybertronians couldn’t identify with a life experience so different from their own. “They think we’re hiding it because we’re doing something wrong, and they’re going to fight to protect me, and I absolutely _cannot_ lose any of them in a fight over something so foolish. I can’t compromise on that, Damus. I _can’t_.” 

Deathsaurus realized too late that he’d used Tarn’s real name. 

Too late for regrets. He pushed on. “So it’s up to you then, whether we take this public or break it off, and I’m sorry if that sounds like an ultimatum. I’m in an untenable position, and you have to tell me what you want so I know what to do.” 

“Well,” Tarn said softly. “Truth be told, this isn’t exactly how I’d hoped to be asked to go out.” 


	10. Caesura

Chapter Ten: Caesura 

Romance, Tarn thought, was well and truly dead. 

His love life could best be summarized as a series of disappointments. He’d never had a relationship that measured up to those of the couples in his favourite novels, and he doubted he ever would. 

He supposed he only had himself to blame. He’d developed standards no real mechanism could ever meet. He’d stuffed his head full of fantasy and nonsense before he’d had enough real-life experience to temper his daydreams, and he’d clung to it long after he’d realized that actual relationships didn’t work like that. 

That was also his own fault. He’d listened to his director who’d counselled him to regard his virginity as a commodity. It was something to be traded to the highest bidder in return for prestige, both for the opera house and for himself. Prestige that came with proving his loyalty and his willingness to sacrifice his all for his cause. 

So he’d stayed home and read his books, hoping that someday some handsome Senator or Lord Protector might come along and sweep him off his feet. 

Then his first private recital had gone wrong. He’d glitched and zapped Glissade into unconsciousness before they’d had a chance to interface. He’d never gotten the chance for a second attempt. 

He’d been a little too political, a little too outspoken, and his talent hadn’t been as well hidden as he’d thought it was. He’d said the wrong thing when the wrong person was listening, or done the wrong thing when the wrong person was watching…and the Functionists had sent their enforcers to punish him. 

Nobody wanted a glitch of an empurata victim in his berth. Certainly not someone as charming as Skids of Nova Cronum, for example. 

Nobody, that is, except Megatron—and Damus of Tarn had been more than willing to give Megatron his everything. Oh, and for a while he’d thought he’d finally found his Protector, his Warlord, his Emperor in Silver… 

…until he realized that he was only one of many mechs to warm Megatron’s berth. 

Tarn had tried to rationalize the situation. Megatron belonged to the Empire; he was more than any one lover could satisfy. Tarn was still special. Tarn was still… 

…still sitting at home, alone with his books, while Megatron went off with Starscream or Deadlock or Thunderwing or who even knew who, and Tarn spun ever more implausible fantasies to distract himself from the growing twin hatreds in his spark: his resentment of his fellow Decepticons and his utter disgust with himself. 

Before long, make believe was no longer enough. 

Tarn learned to act out his fantasies. Just like Megatron, he’d had a string of playmates. He’d honed his skills, charming his little pets into his clutches. With them, he could pretend that grand romance was real. Even if the roles were backwards. Even if he had to play the Lord, and cast his pets as his pretty performers. Oh, how he’d loved his little games. 

But they came with a price. On the morning after, he’d sit up in his berth and remember that his pets were lying next to him because he’d seduced them and manipulated them and used his rank, his charm, his cunning, and his sheer physical presence to get his way. 

_You are being deceived._ So much for grand romance. Not one of his pets would have loved him of their own free will. 

Tarn contented himself with illusions of romance, and told himself that they were enough. Until Deathsaurus. The mech he _hadn’t_ tried to charm into his berth. 

Nobody had ever pursued him the way Deathsaurus had. Nobody had ever desired his touch; nobody had ever sought out his attention. Tarn had initially been put off by Deathsaurus’s crude technique and blunt language, but now Tarn knew Deathsaurus well enough to understand that every gesture and every word, however artless, had been honest. Deathsaurus wanted him. Fortune help him, but he found himself wanting Deathsaurus, too. 

It was what the mechs of Old Vos would have called _slumming_. Find a partner far beneath your social class who was good in the berth. Enjoy the physical pleasures he could offer you. Never, ever think seriously about taking him for a courtmate. 

For some of the upper-class Vosians it had been a particular thrill—a kink, perhaps—to take a lover of a different station. For others it had been all about the interface, and those mechs always bemoaned the days when their lower-class lovers had demanded proper relationships—because that, of course, meant that the affair was over. It had to be. A dalliance was one thing, but an opera performer couldn’t be seen in a serious relationship with someone like…. 

_…like a MTO beastformer, infamous as a deserter and a thief._

And if Tarn had, on occasion, indulged himself in fantasies of being asked to become Deathsaurus’s courtmate…well, they’d been savoured on the understanding that they were only make-believe. The world didn’t work that way. 

Tarn supposed he ought to have known better than to think Deathsaurus cared in the slightest about how the world worked. Since when did Deathsaurus care about norms or rules? 

Of course, he had to do it in true Deathsaurus style, as a blunt and aggressive challenge. And of course it had to be all about his crew. Nothing about _Tarn_ or even about Deathsaurus’s own feelings. All business… 

_Just like Megatron. He was all about his goals, too._

_I…I don’t think he ever loved me._

_I don’t know if he even_ liked _me._

Tarn felt his fuel tank turn over. Oh, yes, he had a type. Powerful warlords utterly obsessed with their own goals who found their pleasure as an afterthought and might, if Tarn worked very hard, find a little bit of their attention that they could consider giving to him. 

Which meant, of course, that this disappointing courtship request was exactly what Tarn deserved. 

_You could say no._

Tarn’s breath caught in his throat. 

_Or at least hold out for a better request. Would it kill him to read you a poem, get you a gift?_

No, Tarn knew better than that. If he said no, Deathsaurus would just turn his back and walk away. It might hurt Deathsaurus to leave, but Tarn knew that Deathsaurus wasn’t afraid of a little hardship. It would hurt Tarn much more, in the end. 

Tarn looked at Deathsaurus, at the beast in his bed, and knew he wasn’t going to say no. 

_At least you’ll find out what it’s like to be with someone who honestly wants you._

That was something Tarn wanted to experience in life. He was shocked by how very much he wanted it. He wondered why he hadn’t realized it before, and guessed that until now, he’d not been able to admit that what he’d had with Megatron had not been the best of all possible relationships after all. 

_There, you see? Tell him yes and find out what a different kind of relationship would be like. Then, when you catch up to Megatron, you’ll…_

Tarn’s fuel pump skipped a beat. 

_You’ll what?_

Enjoy a new experience before he returned to Megatron’s side? 

Find out what it was like to have an actual courtmate before he got himself killed? 

Have something to live for after he put Megatron to death? 

Primus help him, he still didn’t know. 

_One thing at a time. You tell Deathsaurus yes._

But the Vosian in him couldn’t resist a protest at Deathsaurus’s request. 

“So it’s up to you then,” Deathsaurus had said, “whether we take this public or break it off, and I’m sorry if that sounds like an ultimatum. I’m in an untenable position, and you have to tell me what you want so I know what to do.” 

“Well,” Tarn replied softly. “Truth be told, this isn’t exactly how I’d hoped to be asked to go out.” 

Deathsaurus blinked at him. 

Tarn waited. 

Deathsaurus cocked his head in the _curious predator_ gesture and Tarn felt his fuel tank sink. 

“Go out where?” Deathsaurus said. 

Tarn almost choked. It came out as an ugly laugh. Rage spinning up in his spark fizzled and died as Deathsaurus peered at him curiously. No, Deathsaurus wasn’t mocking him. Deathsaurus didn’t understand what he meant. That hadn’t been a courtship request after all. 

_Oh, you want a courtmate, you bloody fool_ , Tarn berated himself. _Badly enough to see a request where none exists._

Deathsaurus’s head jerked back as an idea occurred to him. “Do you mean _go_ with you? Like…like courtmates?” 

Tarn wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Such a slight difference in phrasing for the same concept, but it had meant that Deathsaurus hadn’t understood what Tarn had said, and now this situation was all manner of awkward. 

“Is that what you mean?” Deathsaurus pressed, making it worse. And he’d just keep on making it even more uncomfortable until Tarn answered him. 

Tarn managed a nod, hoping that would shut Deathsaurus up. 

“I can’t ask you!” Deathsaurus exclaimed. 

Now this was just getting insulting. “Why not?” Tarn asked peevishly. 

“Because _you’re_ supposed to be the Emperor and _I’m_ supposed to be your field marshal.” Deathsaurus rose to all fours, his tail slicing through the air and his wings flaring wide with agitation. “I couldn’t find a single loophole in your obnoxiously rigid rank structure. Primus knows I _tried._ Your rules say it’s not appropriate for me to ask you, and you certainly haven’t been asking me, and that’s why we’re in this situation now!” He leaned forward, his beak almost touching Tarn’s mask. “Any public announcements about our relationship, whether we’re courtmates or just fragging each other’s paint off for fun, have to come from _you_!” 


	11. Musette

Chapter Eleven: Musette 

Deathsaurus glared at Tarn, and Tarn stared blankly back at him. Deathsaurus dialed his sensory suite up to the maximums, but even at their most sensitive settings, his senses couldn’t decipher Tarn’s state of mind. Neither the sounds of Tarn’s engine nor the scent of Tarn’s frame gave Deathsaurus a single clue as to what Tarn was feeling, and the mask on his face obscured any visual hints. Deathsaurus rattled his feathers menacingly and dialed his sensory suite back to its normal settings as his fuel lines shrivelled and his spark flickered inside him. 

He was so very far out of his element. 

Every time he felt this way, he cursed the day he reached out to Leozack and Lyzack. The day he passed himself off as Scimitar and took control of his foe’s little combat unit—such as it was. Scimitar’s unit had fallen apart after Deathsaurus had murdered their leader. Deathsaurus supposed the Autobots had killed most of them and the survivors had scattered. 

He should never have let Lyzack give him Scimitar’s legal identity. He’d been woefully unprepared when Drillhorn had shown up with a platoon of freshly minted MTOs. Reinforcements, Drillhorn had called them. 

Deathsaurus had only just grown accustomed to having Leozack and Lyzack around. Suddenly he had a whole unit of mechanisms that he was responsible for. His crew had only grown in size since. 

He’d been out of his element then, and he was out of his element now, and he should have stayed the way he’d been in the beginning: a solitary predator that had nothing to do with a society of civilized mechanisms who lived by nonsensical unwritten rules he couldn’t begin to comprehend. 

Deathsaurus thought it, and felt it, but in his spark he couldn’t believe it. He also remembered what it had been to be alone, killing and feeding and recharging and waking up to kill again, a meaningless cycle of consumption and carnage. He could open up his memory banks and replay file after file of nothing but splattered pink energon and hot red rage. An animal’s recollections. 

His existence had to be about something more than just making the universe regret he was ever built. 

And so, his curse on the day he met his adopted siblings never lasted. In the end he truly didn’t want to be alone. It was merely a reflexive emotion that recurred every time he found himself utterly stymied by the alien nature of so-called normal people. 

“Oh,” Tarn said faintly. “I fear I’ve fallen a little too far into my fantasies.” 

Deathsaurus furled his wings and stepped off of Tarn, lying beside him on the berth. He struggled to bring his aggression under control. It wasn’t right for him to go around casually threatening people, particularly not his lover. Belligerence wasn’t going to help them to sort out this situation. 

“I think I’ve always wanted a dashing mech to ask me out,” Tarn said slowly. He reached up his hand and scratched at his mask. Deathsaurus watched the paint peel off under Tarn’s claws, leaving raw silver metal showing through the scratch marks. “You’re right, of course. Such an arrangement would be entirely impractical for anyone except…” Tarn raised his hand to the opening in his mask, as if to physically catch the name before he spoke it. 

Deathsaurus’s optics widened. “Except Megatron,” he blurted. “You’re _still_ in love with him, aren’t you?” 

Tarn winced. 

That was a _yes_ , but Deathsaurus realized too late how thoughtless he’d been. “Sorry,” Deathsaurus said immediately. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to roll onto his back, exposing his vulnerable underbelly. An apology without an action to back it up was worse than useless—it was insulting. If Tarn wanted his apology written in spilled fuel and pain, Deathsaurus had to provide it. 

“Do you want a tummy rub?” Tarn said sourly. 

Deathsaurus blinked. “Um. I…I’m offering you an opportunity for retaliation. I won’t fight back.” 

Tarn recoiled. “No. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Relieved, Deathsaurus rolled upright again. He’d made the gesture to prove the truth behind his words, but he knew he’d have had trouble accepting pain without returning it. 

“You’ve taught me a few things,” Tarn continued. “About hurting people you care for. You say it’s wrong. I think…I think you might be correct.” 

Which put this whole _punishing Megatron_ business into question, but that issue wasn’t a pressing concern as of yet. Not when Deathsaurus’s relationship with Tarn still hung in limbo. 

All this time Deathsaurus had thought that Tarn’s reluctance had to do with Deathsaurus being a MTO and a beastformer and formerly on the List. He’d never imagined that Tarn’s problems with Megatron could run this deep. He’d thought that just because Tarn hadn’t switched to an Autobot mask and started running around the galaxy apologizing on Megatron’s behalf, that Tarn was free of the hold that Megatron had once had over him. Saying Megatron’s name at night—that didn’t count. Deathsaurus’s dreams were often peopled with strange characters: Scimitar, Shockwave, a long-dead friend, a scientist. He’d never given these phantasms much thought after he woke up. 

Now Deathsaurus suspected that Megatron’s grip on Tarn was a complicated thing, woven into the very foundations of Tarn’s psyche. Deathsaurus was well used to fighting for what he wanted in life, but he wasn’t sure how to begin fighting Megatron’s ghost. 

“I’ve never done well with people who tell me things I don’t want to hear,” Tarn continued. He clasped his hands together in his lap. “I’ve always preferred pretty lies, and look where that’s gotten me. You seem to be doing far better with your ugly truths.” Tarn looked over at Deathsaurus. “So tell me an ugly truth, Deathsaurus. If you knew your crew was safe either way, what would you want for us?” 

Deathsaurus raised his wings in front of his face automatically. He forced himself to pull them back. “I, ah. I haven’t really thought beyond right now. Beyond you lying next to me when I was in this shape. I was so busy bracing for this to be the end of it, that I never considered what might happen if it wasn’t.” 

“Dear Fortune, but you’re a cynic.” 

“I’m a survivor,” Deathsaurus snapped, and immediately regretted it. “Sorry,” he sighed. Frag it to the smelter, he hoped he’d learn someday to think about others’ feelings before he opened his mouth. 

“Someone taught you life worked like this, didn’t they?” Tarn asked softly. “Who?” 

Deathsaurus felt his beak drop open. He stared at Tarn and the truth dropped out of his mouth. “Scimitar.” 

“The identity you stole.” Tarn gazed at Deathsaurus and held out his hand. “The first commander you killed.” 

Deathsaurus felt his internals clench. Tarn had discovered his deceit. The reason he _belonged_ on Tarn’s List—for killing his superior officer. 

“Yes,” Deathsaurus said. 

His spark ached. He wanted to trust Tarn so very badly. But Scimitar had taught him why trusting anyone too much was a mistake. Deathsaurus couldn’t trust that Tarn would take his admission of guilt well. 

“Did you love him?” Tarn murmured. The fearsome leader of the DJD seemed utterly uninterested in Deathsaurus’s crime. 

“No. Not like…like this,” Deathsaurus stammered. “I thought he was my friend, that’s all. He said he wanted to help me. I believed him.” 

It had been such a small act of trust. 

“All I’d wanted was help from someone else.” Deathsaurus tasted bile in his mouth, even after all these years. “Which was too much to ask, apparently.” 

“He betrayed you and you killed him.” Tarn’s tone was sad. He stroked Deathsaurus’s cheek. “Then I hope you understand why I have to hunt down Megatron. It’s really much the same thing.” 

“Love will complicate it,” Deathsaurus warned. “I can’t say I ever loved Scimitar.” 

“Scimitar’s why you don’t trust anyone, but he’s not why you avoid romance,” Tarn summarized, cutting him off. 

Deathsaurus wished he hadn’t been quite that forthcoming. He wondered if perhaps it wasn’t better after all when they misunderstood one another. Deathsaurus had almost mentioned Megatron, who Tarn was clearly not prepared to think about. And Tarn was coming entirely too close to things Deathsaurus didn’t want to share. “I don’t want to talk about…” 

“It’s someone on your crew, isn’t it?” 

Deathsaurus clamped his beak shut and glared at Tarn. 

“You won’t tell me who because you’re protecting them.” 

“We didn’t know any better,” Deathsaurus blurted. Fear for Leozack coiled around his throat. “We were fundamentally incompatible, and we were too young and inexperienced to recognize it before we were neck-deep in frustration and bitterness and hurt.” 

Everyone knew about Deathsaurus and Leozack’s stormy past. If Tarn didn’t, he would soon enough—it wasn’t as though he’d have far to dig to find out. 

“He doesn’t deserve to die because we were stupid,” Deathsaurus said. “We hurt each other by accident, that’s all.” 


	12. Sempre Piu

Chapter Twelve: Sempre Piu 

Tarn definitely understood what it was like to be young and naïve and make foolish mistakes. His ill-fated crush on Skids. His utter infatuation with Megatron. 

No, Megatron was not a good example. Deathsaurus had said that he’d been in love with someone just as inexperienced as he. They’d hurt one another because they’d been a poor match. 

Megatron, Tarn suspected, had always been more interested in his own agenda than in Damus of Tarn. He’d only wanted a faithful enforcer. And Damus had been more than happy to give Megatron anything he wanted, if only Megatron would give him a few scraps of his attention. Megatron had taken advantage of that. 

“And does he still hurt you by _accident_?” Tarn inquired archly. 

Deathsaurus broke optic contact. 

Which was as good as a _yes_. Tarn could think of only one voice of dissent among Deathsaurus’s loyal crew. He’d had issue with Leozack ever since the mech had mouthed off on his first morning aboard the Warworld. 

“It’s Leozack, isn’t it.” 

Deathsaurus made optic contact again, this time with his beak parted and a low, threatening growl in his throat. 

Warworld Captain and Air Commander. 

Shades of Megatron and Starscream. 

Who was Tarn, then? Soundwave? The loyal figure at Megatron’s right hand, always overlooked in favour of a handsome but treacherous knight at his left hand? 

Or was it only Tarn’s obsession with Megatron that had him reaching such a conclusion? Deathsaurus was _not_ Megatron, for all they had traits in common. Perhaps Leozack was not Starscream, either. 

Still, Tarndidn’t like the idea of Deathsaurus’s ex being on the crew. He _particularly_ didn’t like the idea that Deathsaurus and Leozack were still on close terms, both professionally and personally. 

“You won’t touch my brother.” Deathsaurus’s tone was like the icy winds of Messatine, the ones that carried hail sharp enough to flay hide from frame. “None of your DJD will touch my brother.” 

Deathsaurus’s words were calm and steady. He didn’t even raise his voice. He certainly didn’t indulge in graphic descriptions of consequences. Nor did he appeal to justice, morality or a higher power. He said the words as though they were unassailable fact. 

It sounded like a perfectly reasonable request, but Tarn knew a threat when he heard one. This was no request. It was a statement of truth, and it carried behind it the weight of a mechanism who would go to any extreme to ensure the statement remained true. 

Tarn wanted to argue. Justice was _his_ to deliver, _his_ to mete out. 

Except that it was Megatron who’d given him that power. If Megatron was not the Emperor any more, where did Tarn’s authority come from? 

Tarn looked at Deathsaurus, at the fierce look in his lover’s optics, and realized the feeling that lanced his spark was _jealousy_. Deathsaurus would go to these lengths for Leozack. Would he do the same for _Tarn_? 

Tarn wanted Deathsaurus to be that protective of _him_. 

Not that mouthy, sharp-tongued Air Commander of his. 

_Why not me_ ? 

But Tarn also knew that Deathsaurus was prepared to back up his words. He took a deep breath, and as he did so, he replayed what Deathsaurus had said, and noticed something unusual. 

“You call him your _brother_.” 

“It’s what we should have been to one another all along.” Deathsaurus was very forthcoming. “Lyzack has always treated me just as she treats Leozack. I can do no less in return.” He lashed his tail. “They’re my family. Perhaps not by spark frequency or batch code, but without them, I’d still be a solitary predator slaughtering my way across Cybertron.” 

_Lyzack_ . Truth be told, Tarn was less than impressed by Deathsaurus’s computer engineer. She did not seem to be much of a fighter. And Kaon had hacked through into the Warworld’s inter-Decepticon radio. 

But Kaon was clever, and Tarn doubted he’d be able to exploit the same weakness twice. Deathsaurus valued competency, so perhaps Lyzack was better at her job than Tarn had given her credit for. 

Or perhaps Deathsaurus was simply soft on his… _sister_. 

On the _other_ hand, Scimitar had been cruel to Deathsaurus, and had taught him to be suspicious and mistrustful. Lyzack had been kind to Deathsaurus; what had he learned from her? 

Tarn suspected he knew. 

To protect his family to the death. 

And anything that Tarn, or the DJD, did to Leozack—or Lyzack or any of the rest of his crew—would feel like a blade through Deathsaurus’s spark. It would hurt him, and he would hate whoever had dealt the blow. 

Tarn had no idea how to deal with Leozack without his usual tools of intimidation, pain and fear. 

Perhaps the only answer was that he not deal with Leozack at all. No matter how jealous he might be. 

Tarn sighed. “Then the best I can do is make an effort not to do the same. Not to hurt you by accident.” Agitation crawled through his lines. _Hurting people_ was what the DJD was _for_. He was going to screw this up, and Deathsaurus would hate him when he did. 

Deathsaurus peered at him, as though by scrutinizing him, he could read if his words were false or true. Tarn wondered if the rogue warlord trusted him to keep his word. 

He decided it didn’t matter. He would _earn_ Deathsaurus’s trust. He would keep his word, day after day after day. 

There was no use in demanding that Deathsaurus make a show of trusting him now. Deathsaurus probably wouldn’t do it anyway. 

“From this day on, I will never do harm to Leozack or any of the rest of your crew, and neither will my DJD. I swear it.” Tarn gazed into Deathsaurus’s optics. Strange, how it felt odd to see Deathsaurus with only a single pair of eyes. “Time will prove the truth in my words. I will earn your trust, Deszaras-336.” 

Deathsaurus held his gaze. Then he relaxed, settling against Tarn’s side. “Thank you.” 

Tarn rested his hand on the primary spine atop Deathsaurus’s head and touched it gently. He really had to stop thinking about Megatron and Leozack. He shouldn’t waste moments like these. These times should be for him and Deathsaurus. Damus of Tarn and Deszaras-336. 

Tarn was startled when Deathsaurus laid his head in Tarn’s lap. 

Deathsaurus looked up at him, his expression an enigma that Tarn could not translate. 

Holding his breath, Tarn reached down to pet the primary spine on Deathsaurus’s head. Deathsaurus’s engine rumbled in a low, happy purr. Tarn could feel the vibrations travelling through the berth. 

Tarn continued to stroke his lover, who leaned against him and sighed gently. Tarn found himself staring, but not at Deathsaurus’s entire form. His gaze was fixed on Deathsaurus’s face. 

Tarn couldn’t interpret what it meant when Deathsaurus’s head feathers slowly raised to half-mast. Nor could he guess what emotion was suggested by Deathsaurus’s dropped lower jaw and lolling tongue. 

His only hope for a workable emotional translation was Deathsaurus’s optics. Deathsaurus looked up at Tarn, optics glittering, in a manner that Tarn could only describe as _hopeful._

Hopeful and _hesitant_. Deathsaurus’s breath kept catching in his throat. Occasionally he’d bunt Tarn with his beak, as if seeking reassurance or a response. 

Tarn wondered if maybe he just couldn’t read Deathsaurus’s usual cynical smirk on his avian-draconian features. Maybe that was what the open mouth and visible tongue signified. 

But when Tarn tried to map the glittering optics onto Deathsaurus’s robot mode face, the expression he imagined to go with them was one of wistfulness. The kind of wishful thinking done only by mechs who dreamed dreams they already doubted would come true. 

That wasn’t Deathsaurus’s usual demeanour at all. 

Deathsaurus’s typical expression suggested that life was a joke and he’d already guessed the punchline. He wouldn’t waste his time arguing with others or mourning anything he’d lost, because none of it mattered anyway, so he’d speak his mind and do as he pleased until someone or something came along that could stop him. _Easy come, easy go_ , applied not merely to shanix but to life itself. The liberation of utter nihilism… 

…except for his crew, and his fierce love for them. Tarn didn’t know how Deathsaurus, who cared so little for anything else, could care so deeply for his crew. It was as though he’d found one comfort in life and, having discovered it, was prepared to fight against any odds, at any cost, to safeguard it. 

_One comfort_ . For a MTO, that might well be true, Tarn realized. One thing valued to such a high degree that everything else was expendable. 

Tarn looked down into Deathsaurus’s soft gaze and a strange thought crossed his mind. 

_He looks so young._

Tarn kept forgetting that Deathsaurus was less than half his age. Most of the time he didn’t act it. Tarn supposed that having responsibility for a crew—a responsibility that Deathsaurus took so seriously—could have affected his bearing. And, of course, MTOs grew up fast. The ones that survived, at any rate. 

Tarn ran his hand over Deathsaurus’s forehead. Deathsaurus squinted and pressed his head into the touch, clearly enjoying it. 

Tarn had never thought overlong on this topic before. 

The fate of MTOs was something that Tarn knew intellectually, but hadn’t really thought of in an emotional sense. What must that have been like? Deathsaurus could not have been online for long before he’d learned about war. A trial by fire, most likely. 

Tarn imagined coming online, being born into a new world, but not the way he’d been born. That birth might have been in a factory, on an assembly line with hundreds of others just like… 

Immediately Tarn discarded that idea. Two Deathsauruses was a ridiculous idea; hundreds of Deathsauruses was beyond comprehension. _That_ was not a mass-produced altmode. Deathsaurus was a bespoke nightmare, an incarnation of age-old primal terror brought to life in a modern world. 

Tarn wondered if such beasts had existed on Cybertron during the age of the Guiding Hand. Or perhaps Deathsaurus’s designer had instead modeled him on a figure from mythology, like that classical fresco of Primus the Warrior doing battle with the Wyrm of Devastation. 

Tarn would ponder those questions later. Right now he wanted to experience his lover. Des, he said his name was. Deszaras-336, the Emperor of Destruction. 

A batch code and serial number with a fanciful translation in Primal Vernacular. 

A _familiar_ translation. 

Tarn furrowed his brow. No, it wasn’t the Wyrm of Devastation. _Code…_

A code name. 

Project: Deszaras, Tarn realized, as old memory banks, neglected for centuries, opened. 

Tarn looked down with a gasp at the person in his lap. 

The person with the shape of a beast. 


	13. Dolce

Chapter Thirteen: Dolce 

Deathsaurus felt Tarn’s frame stiffen and jerked his head up, away from his lover’s touch, an instant before Tarn gasped. 

Deathsaurus wasn’t sure if Tarn had recoiled from him or if there was some other threat. His sensors pinged the surrounding area, and nothing new came back. He gazed sharply at Tarn with his primary optics, silently demanding an explanation, while his secondary optics changed from infrared to radiation detection, seeking possible danger. 

“Project Deszaras,” Tarn said. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head curiously. It seemed the source of Tarn’s surprise was a thought, rather than a change in their environment. 

“It was something I heard about when I worked at Grindcore.” 

Deathsaurus blinked. “Grindcore is where raw sentio metallico came from.” 

“I…” Tarn reached up his hand and scratched at his mask. “Ah, yes.” He dared to put his other hand on Deathsaurus’s shoulder. “How do you know about that?” The presence of the hand suggested the question was not meant to seem threatening. 

“I heard scientists speaking about supply issues.” Truth. 

“The harvesting process was…difficult.” Deathsaurus could hear Tarn’s fuel tanks sloshing. This was an uncomfortable subject for him. Deathsaurus noted the fact, but decided not to press. Tarn continued. “They used the sentio metallico to build Super MTOs.” 

“I’m told that’s what I am.” But Deathsaurus wasn’t quite like the typical Super MTO, and they both knew it. 

Deathsaurus sensed the frown in Tarn’s voice when he replied. “But you don’t know?” 

“My earliest memories seem to be corrupted.” Semi-true. _Corrupted_ was the most popular theory among his medics. _Absent_ was also possible. There was no data to prove which theory was correct. 

Deathsaurus wasn’t ready to talk about these details. He hated himself for being so defensive, _still_ , around Tarn, even though they were no longer enemies. Even though they were well on track to be something more than allies and lovers. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to be any more forthcoming. Not yet. 

Tarn pressed the issue. “No one saw fit to tell you what you might have forgotten?” 

Deathsaurus managed not to laugh in Tarn’s face. He pressed his beak together and shook his head no. 

He had spent his early life looking out for himself in the absence of anyone to do it for him. 

Mercifully, Tarn appeared to change the subject. “I was born on a starry night in the sparkfield outside of Tarn, where the aurora painted the sky in streamers of brilliant green. Somewhere far off in the distance, someone had been playing music.” Tarn’s voice was soft. “I later learned the song was called the Empyrean Suite.” He gently rubbed Deathsaurus’s shoulder. “It seems frightening to me, not to remember what it feels like to online your optics and see the world for the first time.” 

Deathsaurus wasn’t sure how to respond. 

Tarn had been posted at Grindcore. Grindcore was where the lab had gotten its raw sentio metallico. Tarn would have had access to information about the project that had created Deathsaurus. Given his current rank, he would be able to see quite a number of classified files. 

Tarn could go looking at records Deathsaurus didn’t have the codes to access. Tarn would know where to look for those records. Lyzack’s best guesses had turned up precious little. Tarn would know more. 

Deathsaurus ought to ask Tarn to search for information. Perhaps then he could finally get some answers about some of the things that made him _different_. 

But another part of him felt defensive. Angry. And fearful. 

Why afraid…? 

Because if Tarn looked, he might find the answers before Deathsaurus. Then he would know things about Deathsaurus that Deathsaurus himself didn’t know. What if Tarn decided he’d rather use those things to his advantage than share them with Deathsaurus? 

_Can’t give up control, can you? Not even long enough for Tarn to help you find out how you were created._

_Can’t trust your own potential mate, can you?_

_This matter has nothing to do with your crew’s safety. This time it’s all about you. Who you are, and what Tarn might think if the truth is something horrific._

Tarn had vowed to leave Leozack alone—to never harm any of Deathsaurus’s crew—and Deathsaurus couldn’t even trust him to help him with an entirely private matter? 

Deathsaurus felt his temper flare, but this time his anger was entirely directed at himself. He really _was_ difficult. Here he was again, ready to pick a fight rather than take a chance on strengthening a relationship. 

He needed to do better. 

“Do you think you can still access those records?” Deathsaurus asked. 

Tarn rubbed Deathsaurus’s shoulder. “Most likely. I can’t imagine either Megatron or Starscream so concerned about the Super MTO project that they’d have changed the access codes.” 

“Will you let me know if you find anything?” 

He tried not to shiver. Maybe he should tell Tarn everything. Maybe… 

_No. Don’t throw out yet another weird fact about yourself and ask him if he hates you_ now _. Let him at least get used to this shape of yours first._

“Of course.” Tarn rubbed up under Deathsaurus’s wing root again and Deathsaurus felt a wave of pleasure fog his senses. Tarn wasn’t in any hurry to go looking through files right now, and honestly, Deathsaurus wasn’t either. Not when Tarn knew damned well this revved Deathsaurus up and he was doing it anyway—even with Deathsaurus in his beast mode. 

Deathsaurus raised his head and licked at Tarn’s throat, then his jawline. He bunted Tarn’s cheek. The horn on the end of his beak slipped under the front of Tarn’s mask and a curious thought passed through his mind. If he raised his head quickly, he could rip the mask free. 

Deathsaurus bowed his head and let the mask slip off his horn instead. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly, not wanting Tarn to think he’d done it on purpose. “It was an accident.” 

“There’s no point, you know,” Tarn said sadly. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. He’d expected Tarn to be angry, or perhaps disgusted. This tone was unexpected. He curled his talons over Tarn’s thigh and kneaded gently. “What do you mean?” 

“Do you know what empurata is?” 

“Of course.” Deathsaurus didn’t see how this question was relevant. “Several of my crew have…” 

_Empurata, and we can afford to replace their claws with hands, but replacing a head is expensive and dangerous, the sort of operation you can only afford if you’re wealthy or high-ranking, the sort of operation you only risk if you’re desperate or utterly self-sacrificing…_

Deathsaurus made the connection and looked up sharply. Tarn was looking back at him, and it was clear that he knew what Deathsaurus had just figured out. 

“This head is a replacement,” Tarn said quietly. “So you can’t see what I really looked like.” 

“Then why do you bother with the mask?” Deathsaurus asked. 

Tarn was silent. Deathsaurus chided himself. “Sorry. That was rude.” 

“I’m still trying to understand, myself,” Tarn responded. He wove his fingers through the spines on Deathsaurus’s neck. “I find it somewhat embarrassing.” 

“Did you pick that head, or did someone else pick it for you?” Deathsaurus wondered if Megatron had chosen something humiliating to keep Tarn in his place. Perhaps Tarn covered his features with a mask because he found himself ugly. 

“I chose it. I… heh.” Tarn snorted ruefully. “I have a scar on one side of it. A fight with Grimlock, long ago. Of course _you_ wouldn’t find that unappealing. I’ve seen your crew walking around with weld marks and patch jobs, out there for everyone to see. I’m surprised _you’re_ not covered in scars.” 

Deathsaurus held his tongue. There was a time he thought every Super MTO healed as quickly as he did. What else was that extra sentio metallico for, if not accelerated self-repair? 

He had decided not to talk about that tonight. 

Deathsaurus changed the subject. “My lot find survival and endurance attractive, yes.” 

“My face was designed by the _old_ me. I could look like whatever I wanted, so of course I wanted to look more like…someone I really shouldn’t be thinking about tonight.” 

“Megatron,” Deathsaurus said dryly. 

“Not a very good look now, is it?” 

“You’re afraid we’ll make fun of you behind your back.” 

Tarn sighed. “No, I suppose if I was really being honest with myself, I don’t wear the mask because of the scar, and I don’t even wear it on account of my definitely-inspired-by-Megatron, changed-just-enough-to-not-be-too-obvious face. It’s…” He rested his hand overtop of Deathsaurus’s paw. “Back when I was an actor, I had to be able to control my facial expressions. I could weep on command, or make an audience believe I was in love. It…wasn’t a skill I practiced after the empurata.” 

Of course not. The single optic and hollow head of an empurata victim had very little expression. That was the point. 

“I didn’t know, at first, that empurata was designed to make social connections difficult,” Deathsaurus admitted. “I can still read emotions in people’s scents. I can hear their fuel pumps accelerate when they’re excited; I can hear their tanks churn when they’re nervous. And, of course, there’s all the body language. One missing input didn’t make much difference to me when I had so many others to fill in the gaps. Particularly when, as you say, it’s an input that people can control and, therefore, use dishonestly. I’ve always found scent and sound to be more reliable. Fewer people can change those expressions on command.” He looked up. “But after I discovered how faces were so central to most people’s interactions, I understood.” 


End file.
